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CHILD     LIFE. 


Child  Life: 

A    COLLECTION    OF    POEMS, 

EDITED    BY 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknou  A  I'iki-ds,  and  Fiklds,  Osgood  &  Co. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  COMPANY. 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


TUE  ALDINE    l'liESS."— James  SutlM  £  Co.,  JV.   T. 


V 


■^ 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE. 

A  dreary  place  would  be  this  earth, 
Were  there  no  little  people  in  it  ; 

The  song  of  life  would  lose  its  mirth, 
Were  there  no  children  to  begin  it  ; 

No  little  forms,  like  buds  to  grow, 
And  make  the  admiring  heart  surrender 

No  little  hands  on  breast  and  brow, 

To  keep  the  thrilling  love-chords  tender. 

The  sterner  souls  would  grow  more  stern, 
Unfeeling  nature  more  inhuman, 

And  man  to  stoic  coldness  turn, 

And  woman  would  be  less  than  woman. 

Life's  song,  indeed,  would  lose  its  charm, 
Were  there  no  babies  to  begin  it  ; 

A  doleful  place  this  world  would  be, 
Were  there  no  little  people  in  it. 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  161 

i        Larvae Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney,  162 

Little  Christel "  Lilliput  Levee,"  164 

I  Remember,  I  Remember Thomas  Hood,  168 

Our  Homestead Phcebe  Cary,  169 

The  Afternoon  Nap Charles  G.  Eastman,  171 

Saturday  Afternoon JUT.  P.  Willis,  172 

In  School-Days John  G.  Whittier,  173 

Jeanie  Morrison William  Motherwell,  176 

The  Little  Brother       Alice  Cary,  180 

The  Graves  of  a  Household Mrs.  Hemans,  181 

Miscellaneous. 

The  Children's  Hour Henry  W.  Longfellow,  185 

Father  is  Coming Mary  Howitt,  187 

A  Little  Goose Eliza  Sproat  Turner,  188 

The  Johnny-Cake 190 

Thanksgiving-Day L.  Maria  Child,  192 

The  Clocking  Hen Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes,  194 

The  Crow's  Children Phozbe  Cary,  195 

Dame  Duck's  First  Lecture  on  Education Aunt  Effie,s  Rhymes,  197 

The  Motherless  Turkeys Marian  Douglas,  200 

The  Water-Mill Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes,  202 

Charley,  the  Story-Teller Prom  the  German,  204 

The  Little  Nurse 205 

Benny 208 

Sunday  Morning From  the  German  of  Hebel,  210 

We  are  Seven William  Wordsworth,  212 

The  Child-Judge 215 

Avis Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  217 

The  First  Snow-Fall ... James  Russell  Lowell,  220 

Child  and  Mother Thomas  Hood,  111 

A  Comforter Adelaide  Anne  Proctor,  224 

A  Story  by  the  Fire Dora  Greenwell,  225 

A  Night  with  a  Wolf Bayard  Taylor,  111 

Lost  on  the  Prairie Rose  Terry,  228 

Lucy  Gray William  Wordsworth,  229 

The  Captain's  Daughter James  T  Fields,  232 

The  Gray  Swan , Alice  Cary,  233 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim Robert  Soutliey,  235 

John  Gilpin William  Cowper,  237 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly Mary  Howitt,  246 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel ...R.W.  Emerson,  250 

Little  Brown  Hands M.  H.  Krout,  251 

HYMNS. 

Mother's  Hymn From  the  Swedish,  255 

The  Nearest  Friend F.  W.  Faber,  255 

A  Mother's  Morning  Prayer 256 

Bymnof  a  Child Abridged  from  C.  Wesley,  257 

An  Evening  Prayer Bernard  Barton,  258 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

All  Things  Beautiful John  Keble,  260 

Falling  to  Sleep From  the  German,  261 

The  God  of  my  Childhood F.  W.  Faber,  262 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Frontispiece 

Old  Gaelic  Lullaby 4 

A  Sleeping  Child 6 

Polly 8 

Willie  Winkie 10 

Philip,  my  King 13 

Sleep  Baby,  Sleep 18 

The  Morning-Glory .  24 

How  the  Gates  came  Ajar 29 

The  Child  s  World..... 34 

The  Barefoot  Boy 38 

Seven  Times  One 43 

A  Little  Girl's  Fancies 46 

Grace  and  her  Friends 48  &  50 

Wishing 54 

The  Tree 61 

The  Little  Maiden  and  the  Little  Bird 63 

The  Sorrowful  Sea-Gull 69 

Robert  of  Lincoln 74 

The  Bluebird 77 

The  Cow-Boy's  Song 80 

Farm- Yard  Song 83 

Boys'  Play  and  Girls'  Play 86 

Little  Dandelion 91 

The  Violet 97 

Winter 98  &  99 

The  Cuckoo 100 

The  Brook 101 

The  Gladness  of  Nature 104 

Corn-Fields 105 

Hiawatha's  Childhood 118 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 121 

Castles  in  the  Air 140 

Lady  Moon 142 

The  New  Moon 144 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat 145 

Little  Sorrow 157  &  158 

The  Shadows 160 

Larva; 162  &  163 

Our  Homestead 169 

In  School-Days 173  A  175 

Jeanie  Morrison 177 

The  Children's  Hour 185 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

rxGB 

Thanksgiving-Day 193 

The  Clocking  Hen 194  &  195 

l>ame  Duck's  First  Lecture  on  Education 198 

The  Motherless  Turkeys 200 

Charley,  the  Story-Teller 204 

The  First  Snow-Fall 220 

Child  and  Mother 223 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly 247 

Little  Brown  Hands  252 

An  Evening  Prayer '. 259 

All  Things  Beautiful 260 

The  God  of  my  Childhood 263 


INFANCY 


INFANCY. 


THE   BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  iu  them  sparkle  and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white  rose  ? 
Something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  that  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherub's  wings. 


CHILD  LIFE. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
God  thought  of  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

—  George  Macdonald. 


OLD   GAELIC   LULLABY. 

Hush  !  the  waves  are  rolling  in, 
White  with  foam,  white  with  foam  ; 

Father  toils  amid  the  din  : 
But  baby  sleeps  at  home. 


INFANCY. 

Hush  !  the  winds  roar  hoarse  and  deep,  — 

On  they  come,  on  they  come  ! 
Brother  seeks  the  wandering  sheep  : 

But  baby  sleeps  at  home. 

Hush  !  the  rain  sweeps  o'er  the  knowes, 
Where  they  roam,  where  they  roam  ; 

Sister  goes  to  seek  the  cows  ; 
But  baby  sleeps  at  home. 


LITTLE   BIRDIE. 

What  does  little  birdie  say, 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
"  Let  me  fly,"  says  little  birdie, 

"  Mother,  let  me  fly  away." 
"  Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger." 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 

Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

"  Let  me  rise  and  fly  away." 
"  Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 

Baby,  too,  shall  fly  away." 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 


CHILD  LIFE. 


A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Lips,  lips,  open  ! 

Up  comes  a  little  bird  that  lives  inside, 

Up  comes  a  little  bird,  and  peeps,  and  out  he  flies. 

All  the  day  he  sits  inside,  and  sometimes  he  sings  ; 

Up  he  comes  and  oat  he  goes  at  night  to  spread  his  wings. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  will  you  go  ? 
Hound  about  the  world  while  nobody  can  know. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  do  you  flee  ? 
Far  away  round  the  world  while  nobody  can  see. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  how  long  will  you  roam  ? 
All  round  the  world  and  around  again  home. 

Round  the  round  world,  and  back  through  the  air, 
When  the  morning  comes,  the  little  bird  is  there. 

Back  comes  the  little  bird,  and  looks,  and  in  he  flies 
Up  wakes  the  little  boy,  and  opens  both  his  eyes. 


Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird's  away, 

Little  bird  will  come  again,  by  the  peep  of  day  ; 


INFANCY. 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird  must  go 
Round  about  the  world,  while  nobody  can  know. 

Sleep,  sleep  sound,  little  bird  goes  round, 
Round  and  round  he  goes,  —  sleep,  sleep  sound  ! 

—  Arthur  Hugh  Glough. 


POLLY. 

Brown  eyes,  straight  nose  ; 
Dirt  pies,  rumpled  clothes. 

Torn  books,  spoilt  toys  ; 
Arch  looks,  unlike  a  boy's  ; 


(Three  her  age  is),  cakes,  tarts  ; 

Falling  down  off  chairs  ; 
Breaking  crown  down  stairs  ; 

Catching  flies  on  the  pane  ; 
Deep  sighs  —  cause  not  plain  ; 

Bribing  you  with  kisses 
For  a  few  farthing  blisses. 

Wide-awake  ;  as  you  hear, 
"Mercy's  sake,  quiet,  dear  !" 

New  shoes,  new  frock  ; 
Vague  views  of  what's  o'clock 

When  it's  time  to  go  to  bed, 
And  scorn  sublime  for  what's  said. 


CHILD  LIFE. 


'Ill  1 1 !  i 


/L/y  y  /'//* 

Folded  hands,  saying  prayers  ; 
Understands  not,  nor  cares  ; 


INFANCY. 

Thinks  it  odd  ;  smiles  away  ; 
Yet  may  God  hear  her  pray  ! 

Bed-gown  white  ;  kiss  Dolly  ; 
Good-night  !  that's  Polly. 

Fast  asleep,  as  you  see  ; 
Heaven  keep  my  girl  for  me  ! 

—  "  Lilliput  Levee  " 


MY  GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 

"  What  are  you  good  for,  my  brave  little  man  ? 
Answer  that  question  for  me,  if  you  can,  — 
You,  with  your  fingers  as  white  as  a  nun,  — 
You,  with  your  ringlets  as  bright  as  the  sun. 
All  the  day  long,  with  your  busy  contriving, 
Into  all  mischief  and  fun  you  are  driving  ; 
See  if  your  wise  little  noddle  can  tell 
What  you  are  good  for.     Now  ponder  it  well." 

Over  the  carpet  the  dear  little  feet 

Came  with  a  patter  to  climb  on  my  seat  ; 

Two  merry  eyes,  full  of  frolic  and  glee, 

Under  their  lashes  looked  up  unto  me  ; 

Two  little  hands  pressing  soft  on  my  face, 

Drew  me  down  close  in  a  loving  embrace  ; 

Two  rosy  lips  gave  the  answer  so  true, 

"  Good  to  love  you,  mamma,  —  good  to  love  you." 

—  Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


10 


CHILD  LIFE. 


WILLIE    WINKIE. 

Wee  Willie  Winkie 
Runs  through  the  town, 
Up-stairs  and  down-stairs 
In  his  night-gown, 
Tapping  at  the  window, 
Crying  at  the  lock, 
"  Are  the  weans  in  their  bed, 
For  it's  now  ten  o'clock  ?  " 


INFANCY.  11 

"  Hey  !  Willie  Winkie, 
Are  you  coming  then  ? 
The  cat's  singing  purrie 
To  the  sleeping  hen  ; 
The  dog  is  lying  on  the  floor 
And  does  not  even  peep  ; 
But  here's  a  wakeful  laddie 
That  will  not  fall  asleep." 

Anything  but  sleep,  you  rogue  ! 
Glowering  like  the  moon  ; 
Rattling  in  an  iron  jug 
With  an  iron  spoon  ; 
Rumbling,  tumbling  all  about, 
Crowing  like  a  cock, 
Screaming  like  I  don't  know  what, 
Waking  sleeping  folk. 

"  Hey  !  Willie  Winkie, 
Can't  you  keep  him  still  ? 
Wriggling  off  a  body's  knee 
Like  a  very  eel  ; 
Pulling  at  the  cat's  ear, 
As  she  drowsy  hums  ;  — 
Heigh,  Willie  Winkie  ! 
See  ! — there  he  comes  !  " 

Wearied  is  the  mother 
That  has  a  restless  wean, 
A  wee,  stumpy  bairnie, 
Heard  whene'er  he's  seen  — 
That  has  a  battle  aye  with  sleep 
Before  he'll  close  an  e'e  ; 
But  a  kiss  from  off  his  rosy  lips 
Gives  strength  anew  to  me. 

—  William  Miller. 


12  CHILD  LIFE. 


CHOOSING  A  NAME. 


I  have  got  a  new-born  sister. 

I  was  nigh  the  first  that  kissed  her. 

When  the  nursing-woman  brought  her 

To  papa,  his  infant  daughter, 

How  papa's  dear  eyes  did  glisten  !  — 

She  will  shortly  be  to  christen  ; 

And  papa  has  made  the  offer 

I  shall  have  the  naming  of  her. 

Now,  I  wonder  what  would  please  her  — 

Charlotte,  Julia  or  Louisa  ? 

Ann  and  Mary  they're  too  common  ; 

Joan's  too  formal  for  a  woman  ; 

Jane's  a  prettier  name  beside  ; 

But  we  had  a  Jane  that  died. 

They  would  say,  if  'twas  Rebecca, 

That  she  was  a  little  Quaker. 

Edith's  pretty,  but  that  looks 

Better  in  old  English  books  ; 

Ellen's  left  off  long  ago  ;  • 

Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 

None  that  I  have  named  as  yet 

Are  so  good  as  Margaret. 

Emily  is  neat  and  fine  ; 

What  do  you  think  of  Caroline? 

How  I'm  puzzled  and  perplexed 

What  to  choose  or  think  of  next  ! 

I  am  in  a  little  fever 

Lest  the  name  that  I  should  give  her 

Should  disgrace  her  or  defame  her  :  — 

I  will  leave  papa  to  name  her. 

—  Mary  Lamb 


INFANCY 


13 


PHILIP,  MY  KING. 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large,  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  King  ! 
For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood's  regal  dignities 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  Love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther,  to  command 
Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen  hand-maiden, 

Philip,  my  King  \ 


U  CHILD  LIFE. 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  King  ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  are  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 
Sittest  all  glorified  !  —  Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair  ; 
For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 

Philip,  my  King  ! 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip,  my  King  ! 
Aye,  there  lies  the  spirit,  all  sleeping  now, 
That  may  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  God-throned  amidst  his  peers. 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer, 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  coming  years  ! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 

Philip,  my  King  — 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm  !     One  day, 

Philip,  my  King  ! 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  tread,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  bitter,  and  cold,  and  gray  ; 
Rebels  within  thee,  and  foes  without 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown  ;  but  go  on,  glorious 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  !  till  angels  shout, 
As  thou  sittest  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 

"Philip,  the  King  !" 

—  Author  of  "  John  Halifax? 


INFANCY.  15 


A  MOTHER'S  EXCUSE. 

It  comes  again,  the  blessed  day, 

Made  glorious  by  the  Saviour's  birth, 

When  faintly  in  a  manger  dawned 

The  light  of  God  which  fills  the  earth. 

Along  a  weary,  wintry  waste, 
My  heart  a  loving  pilgrim  wends 

Her  pious  way,  this  holy  time, 
To  greet  you,  0  beloved  friends  ! 

Fondly  I  long  to  take  my  place 

Beside  your  hearth,  its  joys  to  share, — 

To  sun  me  in  the  summer  smiles 
Of  the  dear  faces  gathered  there. 

But  baby  eyes  upraised  to  mine, 

And  baby  fingers  on  my  breast, 
Steep  all  my  soul  in  sweet  content,  — 

Charm  even  such  longings  into  rest. 

Yet,  dear  ones,  let  my  name  be  breathed 
Kindly  around  your  Christmas-tree, 

And  the  still  presence  of  a  soul 
Make  welcome  in  the  place  of  me. 

No  unadorned  and  humble  guest 

Comes  that  fond  soul  this  blessed  even, 

She  bears  a  jewel  on  her  breast 

The  fairest  of  the  gifts  of  heaven.  — 

A  rose  that  breathes  of  Paradise, 

Just  budded  from  the  life  divine, 
A  little,  tender,  smiling  babe, 

As  yet  more  God's  and  heaven's  than  mine  ! 


16  CHILD  LIFE. 


Born  in  the  Saviour's  hallowed  month, 

A  blessed  Christ-child  may  she  be, 
A  little  maiden  of  the  Lord  ;  — 

Room  for  her  by  the  Christmas-tree  ! 

—  Grace  Greenwood. 


CHRIST  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES. 

"  The  Master  has  come  over  Jordan," 
Said  Hannah  the  mother  one  day  ; 

"  He  is  healing  the  people  who  throng  Him, 
With  a  touch  of  His  finger,  they  say. 

"  And  now  I  shall  carry  the  children, 
Little  Rachel  and  Samuel  and  John, 

I  shall  carry  the  baby,  Esther, 
For  the  Lord  to  look  upon." 

The  father  looked  at  her  kindly,      — 
But  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled  : 

"  Now  who  but  a  doting  mother 
Would  think  of  a  thing  so  wild  ? 

"  If  the  children  were  tortured  by  demons, 

Or  dying  of  fever,  'twere  well ; 
Or  had  they  the  taint  of  the  leper, 

Like  many  in  Israel." 

"  Nay,  do  not  hinder  me,  Nathan, 

I  feel  such  a  burden  of  care, 
If  I  carry  it  to  the  Master, 

Perhaps  I  shall  leave  it  there. 

"  If  He  lay  His  hand  on  the  children 
My  heart  will  be  lighter,  I  know, 


INFANCY.  17 

For  a  blessing  for  ever  and  ever 
Will  follow  them  as  they  go." 

So  over  the  hills  of  Judah, 

Along  by  the  vine-rows  green, 
With  Esther  asleep  on  her  bosom, 

And  Rachel  her  brothers  between  ; 

'Mid  the  people  who  hung  on  His  teaching, 

Or  waited  His  touch  and  His  word,  — 
Through  the  row  of  proud  Pharisees  listening 

She  pressed  to  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 

"  Now  why  shouldst  thou  hinder  the  Master." 

Said  Peter,  "  with  children  like  these  ? 
Seest  not  how  from  morning  to  evening 

He  teacheth  and  healeth  disease  ?  " 

Then  Christ  said,  "  Forbid  not  the  children, 

Permit  them  to  come  unto  me  ! " 
And  He  took  in  His  arms  little  Esther 

And  Rachel  He  set  on  His  knee  ; 

And  the  heavy  heart  of  the  mother 

Was  lifted  all  earth-care  above, 
As  He  laid  His  hand  on  the  brothers, 

And  blest  them  with  tenderest  love  ; 

As  He  said  of  the  babes  in  His  bosom, 
"  Of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  heaven  '  — 

And  strength  for  all  duty  and  triai, 
That  hour  to  her  spirit  were  given. 

—  Julia  GUI. 


18 


CHILD  LIFE. 


SLEEP,  BABY,  SLEEP! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Thy  father  watches  his  sheep  ; 
Thy  mother  is  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  comes  a  little  dream  on  thee. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 


Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

The  large  stars  are  the  sheep  : 


INFANCY.  19 

The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess  ; 
And  the  gentle  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Our  Saviour  loves  His  sheep  ; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high, 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

—  From  the  German. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL. 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar  ; 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even,  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels  ! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet  ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 


20  CniLD  LIFE. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves  ; 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went  the  livelong  day  ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell  ! 
0,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 
And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours  ! 

0  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day  ! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright, 

As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more  ; 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn. 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  h«  r  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise),- — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ !  —  our  hearts  bent  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


INFANCY.  21 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 

Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime. 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 

The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange  ; 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 
In  little  Babie  Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face  ! 

Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  :  — 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  ! 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech  ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key, 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things  ; 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees  : 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  chauged  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 


22  CHILD  LIFE. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  0,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God  ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell  ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands  : 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow,  — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  ! 
And  then  A\rent  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours  ! 


T.  B.  Aldrich. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head 

The  morning-glory  bright  ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath, 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a  clear  sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 

"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 

And  her  poor  types  are  they." 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 
We  called  her  by  their  name, 


INFANCY.  23 

And  very  fitting  did  it  seem  ; 
For  sure  as  morning  came, 
Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 
To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower, 
And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 

As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 

Brimmed  with  sleep's  tender  dew  ; 

And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 

As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 
Even  as  comes  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 
To  crown  Love's  morning  hour  ; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 
The  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 
Shines  back  the  heart  of  dav. 


We  never  could  have  thought,  0  God, 
That  she  must  wither  up, 
Almost  before  a  day  was  flown, 
Like  the  morning-glory's  cup  ; 
We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop 
Her  fair  and  noble  head, 
Till  she  lay  stretched  before  our  eyes, 
Wilted,  and  cold,  and  dead  ! 


24  CHILD  LIFE. 

The  morning-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round  ; 

We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

TJpspringiug  from  the  ground. 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 

Renew  again  their  birth  ; 

But  the  gloi*y  of  our  morning 

Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

Oh,  Earth  !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain  ! 

Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air, 

Her  spirit  to  sustain  ;  ^ 

But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 

Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  knee 

— Maria  White  Lowell. 


INFANCY.  25 


OUR   LITTLE    QUEEN. 

Could  you  have  seen  the  violets 

That  blossomed  in  her  eyes  ; 

Could  you  have  kissed  that  golden  hair, 

And  drank  those  holy  sighs  ; 

You  would  have  been  her  tiring-maid 

As  joyfully  as  I, — 

Content  to  dress  your  little  queen, 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 

Could  you  have  seen  those  violets 

Hide  in  their  graves  of  snow  ; 

Drawn  all  that  gold  along  your  hand 

While  she  lay  smiling  so  ;  — 

0,  you  would  tread  this  Aveary  earth 

As  heavily  as  I  !  — 

Content  to  clasp  her  little  grave, 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 

—  Overland  Monthly. 


THE   CHANGELING. 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 
And  she  was  given  to  me, 
To  lead  me  gently  onward 
To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  bjfc  the  force  of  Nature, 
Might  in  some  dim-wise  divine 
The  depth  of  His  infinite  patience 
To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 


26  CHILD  LIFE. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 

And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair  ; 

For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 

As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  the  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover  ? 

How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 

Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 

The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me  ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelvemonth, 
And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 
Stole  my  little  daughter  away  ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zincali 
But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 
And  when  they  opened  her  cage-door, 
My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 
A  little  angel  child, 

That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 
And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled  : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 
Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 
Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky  :  — 


INFANCY.  27 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also  ; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see, 

All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me  ; 

Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 

Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 

I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bless  it  upon  my  breast  ; 

Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle, 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 

And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she's  gone  to, 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 

— ■  James  Russell  Lowell. 


DEATH   OF    AN    INFANT. 

A  host  of  angels  flying, 

Through  cloudless  skies  impelled, 

Upon  the  earth  beheld 
A  pearl  of  beauty  lying, 

Worthy  to  glitter  bright 

In  heaven's  vast  halls  of  light. 

They  saw,  with  glances  tender, 
An  infant  newly  born, 
O'er  whom  life's  earliest  morn 

Just  cast  its  opening  splendor. 
"Virtue  it  could  not  know, 
Nor  vice,  nor  joy,  nor  woe. 


28  CHILD  LIFE. 

The  blest  angelic  legion 

Greeted  its  birth  above, 

And  came  on  wings  of  love 
From  heaven's  enchanting  region, 

Bending  their  winged  way 

To  where  the  infant  lay. 

They  spread  their  pinions  o'er  it,  — 

That  little  pearl  which  shone 

With  lustre  all  its  own,  — 
And  then  on  high  they  bore  it, 

.Where  glory  has  its  birth  ;  — 

But  left  the  shell  on  earth. 

—  From  the  Dutch  of  Dirk  Smits. 


HOW  THE  GATES  CAME  AJAR. 

'Twas  whispered  one  morning  in  heaven 

How  the  little  child-angel  May, 
In  the  shade  of  the  great,  white  portal, 

Sat  sorrowing  night  and  day. 
How  she  said  to  the  stately  warden  — 

He  of  the  key  and  bar  — 
"  0  angel,  sweet  angel  !  I  pray  you, 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar,  — ■ 
Only  a  little,  I  pray  you, 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar  ! 

"  I  can  hear  my  mother  weeping  ; 

She  is  lonely  ;  she  cannot  see 
A  glimmer  of  light  in  the  darkness, 

Where  the  gates  shut  after  me. 
Oh  !  turn  me  the  key,  sweet  angel, 


INFANCY. 

The  splendor  will  shine  so  far  ! " 
But  the  warden  ansAvered  :  "I  dare  not 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar,"  — 
Spoke  low  and  answered  :   "I  dare  not 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar  !  " 


29 


30  CHILD  LIFE. 

Then  rose  up  Mary  the  Blessed, 

Sweet  Mary,  Mother  of  Christ  : 
Her  hand  on  the  hand  of  the  angel 

She  laid,  and  her  touch  sufficed  ; 
Turned  was  the  key  in  the  portal, 

Fell  ringing  the  golden  bar  ; 
And  lo  !  in  the  little  child's  fingers 

Stood  the  beautiful  gates  ajar  ! 
In  the  little  child-angel's  fingers 

Stood  the  beautiful  gates  ajar  ! 

"  And  this  key,  for  further  using, 

To  my  blessed  Son  shall  be  given  ; " 
Said  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus  — 

Tenderest  heart  in  heaven. 
Now,  never  a  sad-eyed  mother 

But  may  catch  the  glory  afar  ; 
Since  safe  in  the  Lord  Christ's  bosom, 

Are  the  keys  of  the  gates  ajar  ; 
Close  hid  in  the  dear  Christ's  bosom, 

And  the  gates  forever  ajar  ! 

—  From  the  Italian. 


OUT    OF    DOORS 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 


THE    CHILD'S    WORLD. 

"  Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  world, 
With  the  wonderful  water  round  you  curled, 
And  the  wonderful  grass  upon  your  breast,  — 
World,  you  are  beautifully  drest. 

"  The  wonderful  air  is  over  me, 
And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking  the  tree, 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the  mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  tops  of  the  hills. 

"  You,  friendly  Earth  !  how  far  do  you  go 

With  the  wheat-fields  that  nod  and  the  rivers  that  flow, 

With  cities  and  gardens,  and  cliffs,  and  isles 

And  people  upon  you  for  thousands  of  miles  ? 

"  Ah,  you  are  so  great,  and  I  am  so  small, 
I  tremble  to  think  of  you,  World,  at  all  ; 
And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers,  to-day, 
A  whisper  inside  me  seemed  to  say, 


34 


CHILD   LIFE. 


'You  are  more  than  the  Earth,  though  you  are  such  a  dot 
You  cau  love  and  think,  and  the  Earth  cannot ! ' " 

— "  Lilliput  Lectures." 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  35 


THE    COUNTRY    CHILD. 


With  mingled  trembling  and  delight, 

And  slowly  falling  feet, 

A  little  country  maiden  now 

Is  passing  down  the  street  : 

A  country  child,  —  I  know  it  by 

Her  timid  air,  her  wondering  eye. 

The  sunlight  warm  has  kissed  her  brow, 

And  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown  ; 

The  odor  of  the  violets 

Comes  with  her  to  the  town  ; 

We  almost  guess  the  woodland  place 

Where  she  has  dwelt,  from  her  sweet  face 

We  almost  read  her  inner  thoughts, 
Through  her  large,  wistful  eyes  ; 
How  bright  to  her  the  city  seems, 
How  much  like  Paradise, 
As  Nature's  child,  with  bounding  heart, 
Looks,  for  the  first  glad  time,  on  Art  ! 

The  merchant,  in  his  store-house  door, 
Smiles  as  she  passes  by  ; 
The  laborer  pauses  in  his  work, 
To  watch  her,  with  a  sigh  : 
Where'er  she  goes,  she  wakens  droarus 
Of  shady  nooks  and  rippling  streams. 

She  seems  to  bring  the  country  !iere,  — 

Its  birds,  its  flowers,  its  dew  ; 

And  slowly,  as  amid  the  throng, 

She  passes  from  our  view, 

We  watch  her  sadly,  as  we  might 

Some  pleasant  landscape  fade  from  sight. 


36  CHILD   LIFE. 

Ah,  well !  we  would  not  keep  her  here, 

These  dusty  streets  to  roam, — 

So  fair  a  flower  should  open  with 

The  daisy  buds  at  home  ; 

Mid  primrose  stars,  as  sweet  and  wild, 

As  she  will  be,  — ■  dear  woodland  child  ! 

—  Marian  Douglas. 


THE    BAREFOOT   BOY. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill  ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  ! 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  I 

0,  for  boyhood's  painless  play  ; 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day  ; 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctors  rules  ; 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  37 

Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 

Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell ; 

How  the  wood-chuck  digs  his  cell, 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well. 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young  ;  >     ■ 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow  ; 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow  ; 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine  ; 

Where  the  wocd-grape's  clusters  shine  : 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, — 

Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay,  — 

And  the  architectural  plans 

Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 

Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played  ; 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 


38 


CHILD  LIFE. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  39 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall  ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond  ; 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond  ; 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew, 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

0,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frog's  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 


40  CHILD   LIFE. 


Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil  : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  could'st  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

—  John  G.    Whittier. 


LITTLE    BELL. 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beech  wood  spray, 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What 's  your  name  ?  "  quoth  he  — 
"  What 's  your  name  ?     0  stop,  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold."  — 

"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks  — 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks  — 

"  Bonny  bird,"  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song,  before  I  go." 
"  Here's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell  "  said  he. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  41 

And  the  blackbird  piped  ;  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird  ;  — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o'er  and  o'er, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped,  and  through  the  glade 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And,  from  out  the  tree 
Swung,  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear,  — 
While  bold  blackbird  piped,  that  all  might  hear, 

"  Little  Bell !"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern  : 
"Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return  — 

Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies  — 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes  — 

And  adown  the  tree, 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap,  dropped  one  by  one  ;  — 
Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun  ! 

"  Happy  Bell  !  "  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade  ;  — ■ 
"  Squirrel,  squirrel,  if  you're  not  afraid, 
Come  and  share  with  me  !  " 


42  CHILD  LIFE. 

Down  came  squirrel,  eager  for  his  fare, — 
Down  came  bonny  blackbird,  I  declare  ! 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share  ; 
Ah,  the  merry  three  ! 

And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies. 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow, 

From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day, 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to  pray  : 

Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 

"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That,  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and  soft,  oh  !  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell  !  "  crooned  he. 

"  Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "God  cloth  bless  with  angels'  care  ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm.     Love,  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  around,  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee." 

—  T.  Westwood. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 


45 


SEVEN  TIMES  ONE 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There 's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  : 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times"  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


*  ;#r^" 


U  GUILD  LIFE. 

I  am  old,  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter  ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better,  — 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  Moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low  ; 

You  were  bright,  ah  bright  !  but  your  light  is  failing,  — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  Moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you  're  a  dusty  fellow  ; 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold  ! 
O  brave  marshmary  buds,  rich  and  yellow, 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

0  cuckoo-pint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell  ! 

And  show  me  your  nest,  with  the  young  ones  in  it,  — 
I  will  not  steal  it  away  ; 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet,  — 
I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

— Jean  Ingelow. 


A  WISH. 

"  Be  my  fairy,  mother, 
Give  me  a  wish  a  day  ; 

Something,  as  well  in  sunshine 
As  when  the  rain-drops  play." 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  45 

"  And  if  I  were  a  fairy, 

With  but  one  wish  to  spare, 
What  should  I  give  thee,  darling, — 

To  quiet  thine  earnest  prayer  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  a  little  brook,  mother, 

All  for  my  very  own, 
To  laugh  all  day  among  the  trees, 

And  shine  on  the  mossy  stone  ; 

"  To  run  right  under  the  window, 

And  sing  me  fast  asleep  ; 
With  soft  steps  and  a  tender  sound, 

Over  the  grass  to  creep. 

"  Make  it  run  down  the  hill,  mother, 

With  a  leap  like  a  tinkling  bell, 
So  fast  I  never  can  catch  the  leaf 

That  into  its  fountain  fell. 

"  Make  it  as  wild  as  a  frightened  bird, 

As  crazy  as  a  bee, 
With  a  noise  like  the  baby's  funny  laugh  ;  — 

That's  the  brook  for  me  !  " 

—  Rose  Terry. 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S  FANCIES. 

0  little  flowers,  you  love  me  so, 

You  could  not  do  without  me  ; 
0  little  birds  that  come  and  go, 

You  sing  sweet  songs  about  me  ; 
0  little  moss,  observed  by  few, 

That  round  the  tree  is  creeping, 
You  like  my  head  to  rest  on  you, 

When  I  am  idly  sleeping. 


46 


CHILD  LIFE. 

0  rushes  by  the  river  side, 

You  bow  when  I  come  near  you  ; 
0  fish,  you  leap  about  with  pride, 

Because  you  think  I  hear  you  ; 
0  river,  you  shine  clear  and  bright, 

To  tempt  me  to  look  in  you  ; 
0  water-lilies,  pure  and  white, 

You  hope  that  I  shall  wiu  you. 


0  pretty  things,  you  love  me  so, 

I  see  I  must  not  leave  you  ; 
You'd  find  it  very  dull,  I  know, — 

I  should  not  like  to  grieve  you. 
Don't  wrinkle  up,  you  silly  moss  ; 

My  flowers,  you  need  not  shiver  ; 
My  little  buds,  don't  look  so  cross  ; 

Don't  talk  so  loud,  my  river 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  47 

I  'm  telling  you  I  will  not  go, 

It 's  foolish  to  feel  slighted  ; 
It's  rude  to  interrupt  me  so, 

You  ought  to  be  delighted. 
Ah  !  now  you  're  growing  good,  I  see, 

Though  anger  is  beguiling  : 
The  pretty  blossoms  nod  at  me  ;  — 

I  see  a  robin  smiling. 

And  I  will  make  a  promise,  dears, 

That  will  content  you,  may  be  : 
I  '11  love  you  through  the  happy  years, 

Till  I  'm  a  nice  old  lady  ! 
True  love  (like  yours  and  mine)  they  say 

Can  never  think  of  ceasing, 
But  year  by  year,  aud  day  by  day, 

Keeps  steadily  increasing. 

—  Poems  written  for  a  Child. 


GRACE  AND  HER  FRIENDS. 

"  Your  walk  is  lonely,  blue-eyed  Grace, 
Down  the  long  forest-road  to  school, 

Where  shadows  troop,  in  many  a  place, 
From  sullen  chasm  to  sunless  pool. 

Are  you  not  often,  little  maid, 

Beneath  the  sighing  trees  afraid  ?  " 

"  Afraid,  —  beneath  the  tall,  strong  trees 
That  bend  their  arms  to  shelter  me, 

And  whisper  down,  with  dew  and  breeze, 
Sweet  sounds  that  float  on  lovingly, 

Till  every  gorge  and  cavern  seems 

Thrilled  through  and  through  with  fairy  dreams  ? 


48  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Afraid,  —  beside  the  water  dim 
That  holds  the  baby-lilies  white 

Upon  its  bosom,  where  a  hymn 
Ripples  forth  softly  to  the  light 

That  now  and  then  comes  gliding  in, 

A  lily's  budding  smile  to  win  ? 


(Cf    - 

.5" v 

4,t,  „  -  "       <$■  . 


'M 


i$, 


"  Fast  to  the  slippery  precipice 
I  see  the  nodding  harebell  cling  ; 

In  that  blue  eye  no   ear  there  is  ; 

Its  hold  is  firm,  —  the  frail,  free  thing  ! 

The  harebell's  Guardian  cares  for  me  : 

So  I  am  in  safe  company. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  49 

"  The  woodbine  clambers  up  the  cliff 

And  seems  to  murmur,  '  Little  Grace, 
The  sunshine  were  less  welcome,  if 

It  brought  not  every  day  your  face.' 
Red  leaves  slip  down  from  maples  high, 
And  touch  my  cheek  as  they  flit  by. 

"  I  feel  at  home  with  everything 

That  has  its  dwelling  in  the  wood  ; 
With  flowers  that  laugh,  and  birds  that  sing,  — 

Companions  beautiful  and  good, 
Brothers  and  sisters  everywhere  ; 
And  over  all,  our  Father's  care. 

"  In  rose-time  or  in  berry-time, — 

When  ripe  seeds  fall,  or  buds  peep  cut,  — 

When  green  the  turf,  or  white  the  rime, 
There 's  something  to  be  glad  abont. 

It  makes  my  heart  bound,  just  to  pass 

The  sunbeams  dancing  on  the  grass. 

"  And  when  the  bare  rocks  shut  me  in 

Where  not  a  blade  of  grass  will  grow, 
My  happy  fancies  soon  begin 

To  warble  music,  rich  and  low, 
And  paint  what  eyes  could  never  see : 
My  thoughts  are  company  for  me. 

"  What  does  it  mean  to  be  alone  ? 

And  how  is  any  one  afraid, 
Who  feels  the  dear  God  on  His  throne 

Beaming  like  sunshine  through  the  shade, 
Warming  the  damp  sod  into  bloom, 
And  smiling  off  the  thicket's  gloom  ? 


50  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  At  morning,  down  the  wood-path  cool, 
The  fluttering  leaves  make  cheerful  talk  ; 

After  the  stifled  day  at  school, 
I  hear,  along  my  homeward  walk, 

The  airy  wisdom  of  the  wood,  — 

Far  easiest  to  be  understood. 

"  I  whisper  to  the  winds  ;  I  kiss 

The  rough  old  oak,  and  clasp  his  bark  ; 

No  farewell  of  the  thrush  I  miss  ; 
I  lift  the  soft  veil  of  the  dark, 

And  say  to  bird,  and  breeze,  and  tree, 

'  Good  night  !     Good  friends  you  are  to  me  ! '  " 

—  Lucy  Larcum. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  51 


OYER   IN   THE    MEADOW. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  sand,  in  the  sun, 
Lived  an  old  mother-toad 

And  her  little  toadie  one. 
"  Wink  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  I  wink,"  said  the  one : 
So  she  winked  and  she  blinked 

In  the  sand,  in  the  sun. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  stream  runs  blue, 
Lived  an  old  mother-fish 

And  her  little  fishes  two. 
"  Swim  !"  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  swim,"  said  the  two  : 
So  they  swam  and  they  leaped 

Where  the  stream  runs  blue. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  hole  in  a  tree, 
Lived  a  mother-bluebird 

And  her  little  birdies  three 
"  Sing  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  sing,"  said  the  three  : 
So  they  sang,  and  were  glad, 

In  the  hole  in  the  tree. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  reeds  on  the  shore, 

Lived  a  mother-muskrat 
And  her  little  ratties  four. 


52  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Dive  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"We  dive,"  said  the  four  : 
So  they  dived  and  they  burrowed 

In  the  reeds  on  the  shore. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  snug  beehive, 
Lived  a  mother-honeybee 

And  her  little  honeys  five. 
"  Buzz  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  buzz,"  said  the  five  : 
So  they  buzzed  and  they  hummed 

In  the  snug  beehive. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  nest  built  of  sticks, 
Lived  a  black  mother-crow 

And  her  little  crows  six. 
"  Caw  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  caw,"  said  the  six  : 
So  they  cawed  and  they  called 

In  their  nest  built  of  sticks. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  grass  is  so  even, 
Lived  a  gay  mother-cricket 

And  her  little  crickets  seven. 
"Chirp  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  chirp,"  said  the  seven  : 
So  they  chirped  cheery  notes 

In  the  grass  soft  and  even. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 
By  the  old  mossy  gate, 

Lived  a  brown  mother-lizard 
And  her  little  lizards  eight. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  63 

"  Bask  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"We  bask,"  said  the  eight  : 
So  they  basked  in  the  sun 

On  the  old  mossy  gate. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  clear  pools  shine, 
Lived  a  green  mother-frog 

And  her  little  froggies  nine. 
"  Croak  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

' '  We  croak,"  said  the  nine  : 
So  they  croaked,  and  they  plashed, 

Where  the  clear  pools  shine. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  a  sly  little  den, 
Lived  a  gray  mother-spider 

And  her  little  spiders  ten. 
'•'  Spin  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  spin,"  said  the  ten  : 
So  they  spun  lace  webs 

In  their  sly  little  den. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

In  the  soft  summer  even, 
Lived  a  mother-fire-fly 

And  her  little  flies  eleven. 
"  Shine  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"We  shine,"  said  the  eleven  : 
So  they  shone  like  stars 

In  the  soft  summer  even. 

Over  in  the  meadow, 

Where  the  men  dig  and  delve, 
Lived  a  wise  mother-ant 

And  her  little  anties  twelve, 


54  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Toil  !  "  said  the  mother  ; 

"  We  toil,"  said  the  twelve  : 
So  they  toiled,  and  were  wise, 

Where  the  men  dig  and  delve. 

—  Olive  A.  Wadsworth. 


WISHING. 

Ring-ting  !     I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose, 

A  bright  yellow  Primrose,  blowing  in  the  spring  ! 

The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 

The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 

And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  king  ! 


Nay — stay  !     I  wish  I  were  an  Elm-tree, 
A  great,  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay  t 
The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 
The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 
The  birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing. 

0  —  no  !     I  wish  I  were  a  Robin, 

A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go  ; 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  55 

Through  forest,  field,  or  garden, 
And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 
Till  winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing  ! 

Well  — tell!     Where  should  I  fly  to, 
Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell  ? 

Before  a  day  was  over, 

Home  comes  the  rover, 
For  mother's  kiss  —  sweeter  this 

Than  any  other  thing. 

—  William  Allingham. 


STOP,    STOP,    PRETTY  WATER. 

"Stop,  stop,  pretty  water  !" 

Said  Mary,  one  day, 
To  a  frolicsome  brook, 

That  was  running  away. 

"  You  run  on  so  fast ! 

I  wish  you  would  stay  ; 
My  boat  and  my  flowers 

You  will  carry  away. 

"But  I  will  run  after  : 

Mother  says  that  I  may  ; 
For  I  would  know  where 

You  are  running  away." 

So  Mary  ran  on  ; 

But  I  have  heard  say, 
That  she  never  could  find 

Where  the  brook  ran  away. 

—  Mrs.  Fallen. 


56  CHILD  LIFE. 


CHILD'S   WISH   IN  JUNE. 

Mother,  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play, 
Prithee  let  me  be  idle  to-day, 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  flowers  all  lie 
Languidly  under  the  bright  blue  sky. 

See  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides  ; 
Look  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides  ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  rose, 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 

Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  one  ; 
And  Pussy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her  face. 

There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighboring  tree, 
But  very  lazily  flutters  he  ; 
And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note, 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

You  bid  me  be  busy  ;  but,  mother,  hear, 
The  hum-drum  Grasshopper  droning  near  ; 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in  its  play, 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

I  wish,  oh  !  I  wish,  I  was  yonder  cloud, 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud  ; 
Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 
But  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee. 

—  Mrs.  Crilman. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  57 


UNDER   MY   WINDOW. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window. 

All  in  the  midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls,  with  fluttering  curls, 

Flit  to  and  fro  together  :  — 
There 's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 

And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah  !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses, 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

In  the  blue  midsummer  weather, 
Stealing  slow,  on  a  hushed  tip-toe, 

I  catch  them  all  together  :  — 
Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 

And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

And  off  through  the  orchard  closes  ; 
While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 

They  scamper,  and  drop  their  posies  ; 
But  dear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss, 
And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 

And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

—  T.  Westwood. 


58  CHILD  LIFE. 


THE   SCHOOL. 


"Little  girl,  where  do  you  go  to  school, 

And  when  do  you  go,  little  girl  ? 
Over  the  grass,  from  dawn  till  dark, 

Your  feet  are  in  a  whirl  : 
You  and  the  cat  jump  here  and  there, 

You  and  the  robins  sing  ; 
But  what  do  you  know  in  the  spelling-book  ? 

Have  you  ever  learned  any  thing  ? " 

Thus  the  little  girl  answered,  — 

Only  stopping  to  cling 
To  my  finger  a  minute, 

As  a  bird  on  the  wing 
Catches  a  twig  of  sumach, 

And  stops  to  twitter  and  swing,  — 

"  When  the  daisies'  eyes  are  a-twinkle 

With  happy  tears  of  dew  ; 
When  swallows  Avaken  in  the  eaves, 

And  the  lamb  bleats  to  the  ewe  ; 
When  the  lawns  are  golden-barred, 

A  nd  the  kiss  of  the  wind  is  cool ; 
When  morning's  breath  blows  out  the  stars,  - 

Then  do  I  go  to  school  ! 

"  My  school-roof  is  the  dappled  sky  ; 

And  the  bells  that  ring  for  me  there 
Are  all  the  voices  of  morning 

Afloat  in  the  dewy  air. 
Kind  Nature  is  the  Madame  ; 

And  the  book  whereout  I  spell 
Is  dog's-eared  by  the  brooks  and  glens 

Where  I  know  the  lesson  well." 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  59 


Thus  the  little  girl  answered, 
In  her  musical  out-door  tone  : 

She  was  up  to  ray  pocket, 
I  was  a  man  full-grown  ; 

But  the  next  time  that  she  goes  to  school, 
She  will  not  go  alone  ! 


Fitz-Hugh  Ludlow. 


"HOLD    FAST  WHAT  I   GIVE   YOU." 

' '  Molly,  and  Maggie,  and  Alice, 

Three  little  maids  in  a  row, 
At  play  in  an  arbor  palace, 

Where  the  honeysuckles  grow,  — 

"Six  dimpled  palms  pressed  together, 

Even  and  firm,  two  by  two,  — 
Three  eager,  upturned  faces, 

Bonny  brown  eyes  and  blue. 

"  Which  shall  it  be,  0  you  charmers  ? 

Alas  !  I  am  sorely  tried,  — 
I,  a  hard-hearted  old  hermit, 

Who  the  question  am  set  to  decide. 

"  Molly,  the  sprite,  the  darling, 

Shaking  her  shower  of  curls, 
Whose  laugh  is  the  brook's  own  ripple, 

Gayest  and  gladdest  of  girls  ? 

"  Maggie,  the  wild  little  brownie, 

Every  one's  plaything  and  pet, 
Who  leads  me  a  chase  through  the  garden 

For  a  kiss,  the  wicked  coquette  ? 


6V  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Or  Alice  ?  —  ah  !  shy-eyed  Alice, 

Looking  so  softly  down 
Under  her  long,  dark  lashes 

And  hair  so  golden  brown,  — 

"Alice,  who  talks  with  the  flowers, 
And  says  there  are  none  so  wise,  — 

Who  knoivs  there  are  elves  and  fairies, 
For  has  n't  she  seen  their  bright  eyes  ? 

"  There,  there,  at  last  I  am  ready 
To  go  down  the  bright,  eager  row  ; 

So,  up  with  your  hands,  my  Graces, 
Close,  —  nobody  else  must  know. 

"  '  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Molly  ! 

( Poor  little  empty  palms  ! ) 
'  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Maggie  ! 

(A  frown  steals  over  her  charms.) 

"  '  Hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Alice  ! 

You  smile,  —  do  you  so  much  care  ? 
Unclasp  your  little  pink  fingers  : 

Ah  ha  !  the  button  is  there  ! 

"  But  do  you  know,  sweet  Alice, 

All  that  I  give  you  to  keep  ? 
For  into  my  heart  you  have  stolen, 

As  sunbeams  to  shadows  creep. 

"  You,  a  glad  little  maiden, — 
How  old  are  you  ?     Only  nine,  — 

With  your  bright,  brown  hair  all  shining, 
While  the  gray  is  coming  to  mine. 

"No  matter,  you'll  be  my  true-love, 

And  come  to  my  old  arms  so  ; 
And  '  hold  fast  what  I  give  you,'  Alice, 

For  nobody  else  must  know."        —  Lily  Warner. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 


61 


THE  TREE. 

The   Tree's   early  leaf-buds   were 

bursting  their  brown  ; 
"  Shall  I  take  thern  away?"  said 
the  Frost,  sweeping  down. 
"  No,  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  blossoms  have  grown," 
Prayed  the  Tree,  while  he  trembled 
from  rootlet  to  crown. 

The  Tree  bore  his  blossoms,  and 

all  the  birds  sung  : 
"Shall  I  take  them  away  ?  "  said 
the  Wind,  as  he  swung. 
"  No,  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  berries  have  grown," 
Said  the   Tree,  while   his  leaflets 
quivering  hung. 

The  Tree  bore  his  fruit  in  the  mid- 
summer glow : 
Said  the  girl,  "  May  I  gather  thy 
berries  now  ?  " 
"  Yes,  all  thou  canst  see  : 
Take  them  ;  all  are  for  thee," 
Said  the  Tree,  while  he  bent  down 
his  laden  boughs  low. 
—  Bjorndjerne  Bjornson 


CHILD  LIFE. 


GOOD-NIGHT    AND    GOOD-MORNING. 

A  fair  little  girl  sat  under  a  tree, 
Sewing  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
Then  smoothed  her  work  and  folded  it  right, 
And  said,  "  Dear  work,  good-night,  good-night  !  " 

Such  a  number  of  rooks  came  over  her  head, 
Crying  "  Caw  !  Caw  ! "  on  their  way  to  bed, 
She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious  flight, 
"  Little  black  things,  good-night,  good-night  !  " 

The  horses  neighed,  and  the  oxen  lowed, 

The  sheep's  "  Bleat  !  Bleat  ! "  came  over  the  road  ; 

All  seeming  to  say,  with  a  quiet  delight, 

"  Good  little  girl,  good-night,  good-night  !  " 

She  did  not  say  to  the  sun,  "  Good-night  !  " 
Though  she  saw  him  there  like  a  ball  of  light  ; 
For  she  knew  he  had  God's  time  to  keep 
All  over  the  world,  and  never  could  sleep. 

The  tall  pink  foxglove  bowed  his  head  ; 
The  violets  curtsied,  and  went  to  bed  ; 
And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair, 
And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favorite  prayer. 

And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  softly  lay, 

She  knew  nothing  more  till  again  it  was  day  ; 

And  all  things  said  to  the  beautiful  sun, 

"  Good-morniug,  good-morning  !  our  work  is  begun." 

—  Lord  Houghton. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 


63 


THE   LITTLE   MAIDEN    AND   THE   LITTLE    BIRD. 


"  Little  bird  !  little  bird  !  come 

to  me  ! 
^fp|||i     I  have  a  green  cage  ready  for 

thee,  — 
Beauty-bright  flowers  I'll  bring 

anew, 
And  fresh,  ripe  cherries,  all  wet 

with  dew." 


"  Thanks,  little  maiden,  for  all  thy  care,  — 
But  I  love  dearly,  the  clear,  cool  air, 
And  my  snug  little  nest  in  the  old  oak-tree." 
"  Little  bird  !  little  bird  !  stay  with  me." 


64  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Nay,  little  damsel  !  away  I  '11  fly 
To  greener  fields  and  warmer  sky  ; 
When  Spring  returns  with  pattering  rain, 
You  '11  hear  my  merry  song  again." 

"  Little  bird  !  little  bird  !  who'll  guide  thee 
Over  the  hills  and  over  the  sea  ? 
Foolish  one  !  come  in  the  house  to  stay, 
For  I 'm  very  sure  you'll  lose  your  way." 

"Ah,  no,  little  maiden  !  God  guides  me 
Over  the  hills,  and  over  the  sea  ; 
I  will  be  free  as  the  rushing  air, 
And  sing  of  Providence  everywhere." 


THE   ORIOLES. 

Four  little  mouths  agape  for  ever  ; 

Four  little  throats  which  are  never  full  ; 
Four  little  nestlings,  who  dissever 

One  big  worm,  by  a  mighty  pull. 

Up  on  a  limb  —  the  lazy  fellow  !  — 
Perches  the  father,  bold  and  gay, 

Proud  of  his  coat  of  black  and  yellow, 
Always  singing  throughout  the  day. 

Close  at  their  side,  the  watchful  mother, 
Quietly  sober  in  dress  and  song, 

Chooses  her  place,  and  asks  no  other, 
Flying  and  gleaning  all  day  long. 

Four  little  mouths  iu  time  grow  smaller, 
Four  little  throats  in  time  are  filled  ; 

Four  little  nestlings  quite  appall  her, 

Spreading  their  wings  for  the  sun  to  gild. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  65 

Lazy  no  longer  sits  the  father,  — 

His  is  the  care  of  the  singing-school  ; 
He  must  teach  them  to  fly,  and  gather 

Splendid  worms  by  the  nearest  pool. 

Singing  away  on  the  shaken  branches, 

Under  the  light  of  the  happy  sun  ; 
Dropping  through  blossoms  like  avalanches,  — 

Father  Oriole's  work  is  done. 

Four  little  beaks  their  mouths  embolden, 
Four  little  throats  are  round  and  strong  ; 

Pour  little  nestlings,  fledged  and  golden, 
Graduate  in  the  world  of  song. 


A  BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW. 

Quoth  the  boy,  "  I  '11  climb  that  tree, 
And  bring  down  a  nest  I  know." 
Quoth  the  girl,  "  I  will  not  see 
Little  birds  defrauded  so  ! 
Cowardly,  their  nests  to  take, 
And  their  little  hearts  to  break, 
And  their  little  nests  to  steal 
Leave  them  happy  for  my  sake  ! 
Surely  little  birds  can  feel !  " 

Quoth  the  boy,  "  My  senses  whirl  ; 

Until  now  I  never  heard 

Of  the  wisdom  of  a  girl, 

Or  the  feelings  of  a  bird  ! 

Pretty  Mrs.  Solomon, 

Tell  me  what  von  reckon  on 


66  CHILD  LIFE. 

When  you  prate  in  such  a  strain  ; 
If  I  wring  their  necks  anon, 
Certainly  they  might  feel  —  pain  !  " 

Quoth  the  girl,  "  I  watch  them  talk, 
Making  love  and  making  fun, 
In  the  pretty  ash-tree  walk, 
When  my  daily  task  is  done  : 
In  their  little  eyes  I  find 
They  are  very  fond  and  kind. 
Every  change  of  song  or  voice 
Plainly  proveth  to  my  soul 
They  can  suffer  and  rejoice." 

And  the  little  Robin-bird 

(Nice  brown  back  and  crimson  breast) 

All  the  conversation  heard, 

Sitting  trembling  in  his  nest. 

"  What  a  world,"  he  cried,  "of  bliss  — 

Full  of  birds  and  girls,  were  this  ! 

Blithe  we  'd  answer  to  their  call  ; 

But  a  great  mistake  it  is 

Boys  were  ever  made  at  all." 

—  Poems  written  for  a  Child. 


SING    ON,    BLITHE    BIRD  ! 

I  've  plucked  the  berry  from  the  bush,  the  brown  nut  from  the  tre>', 

But  heart  of  happy  little  bird  ne'er  broken  was  by  me. 

I  saw  them  in  their  curious  nests,  close  couching,  slyly  peer 

With  their  wild  eyes,  like  glittering  beads,  to  note  if  harm  were 

near  ; 
I  passed  them  by,  and  blessed  them  all ;  I  felt  that  it  was  good 
To  leave  unmoved  the  creatures  small  Avhose  home  was  in  the  wood. 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  67 

And  here,  even  now,  above  my  head,  a  lusty  rogue  doth  sing, 
He  pecks  his  swelling  breast  and  neck,  and  trims  his  little  wing. 
He  will  not  fly  ;  he  knows  full  well,  while  chirping  ou  that  spray, 
I  would  not  harm  him  for  a  world,  or  interrupt  his  lay. 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  blithe  bird  !  and  fill  my  heart  with  summer  glad- 
ness, 
It  has  been  aching  many  a  day  with  measures  full  of  sadness  ! 

—  William  Motherwell. 


THE    SANDPIPER. 

Across  the  lonely  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  drift-wood,  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud,  black  and  swift,  across  the  sky ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  light-houses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry  ; 

He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 
Nor  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 


68  CHILD  LIFE. 

He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong, 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye  ; 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night, 
When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 

My  drift-wood  fire  will  burn  so  bright  ! 
To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 

I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 
The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky  ; 

For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 

—  Oelia  Thaxter, 


THE    SORROWFUL    SEA-GULL. 

The  sea-gull  is  so  sorry  ! 

She  flings  herself  about, 
And  utters  little,  wailing  cries, 

And  flutters  in  and  out. 
The  fishes  do  not  sympathize,  — 

Fish  are  so  very  cool  ! 
They  make  so  many  rules,  you  know  ; 

And  who  can  feel  by  rule  ? 

They  have  a  rule  for  swimming, 

A  rule  for  taking  food  ; 
They  have  a  rule  for  pleasure  trips, 

A  rule  for  doing  good. 
And  people  who  make  rules  like  that 

May  drive,  and  work,  and  swim, 
But  never  know  how  sweet  a  thing 

It  is  to  take  a  whim  ! 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 

I  'd  like  to  be  a  sea-gull, 

With  lovely  beak  and  claws  ; 
I  would  not  like  to  be  a  fish, 

Subject  to  fishy  laws. 
And  if  they  make  more  changes  soon 

By  acts  of  Parliament, 
I  won't  consent  to  be  a  fish,  — 

I  never  will  consent  ! 


mmm  - 


Why  is  the  sea-gull  sorry  ? 

I  'm  not  allowed  to  tell. 
The  fish,  who  will  not  sympathize, 

Know  what 's  the  matter  well  ! 
And  you  Avho  feel  with  all  your  hearts, 

And  give  her  love  and  tears, 
Are  not  allowed  to  hear  a  word  ;  — 

And  such  is  life,  my  dears  ! 

—  Child-World. 


70  CHILD  LIFE. 


THE   BROWN   THRUSH. 

There  's  a  merry  brown  thrush  .sitting  up  in  the  tree, 
"  He's  singing  to  me  !     He's  singing  to  me  !  " 
And  what  does  he  say,  little  girl,  little  boy  ? 
"  Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy  ! 

Don't  you  hear  ?     Don't  you  see  ? 

Hush  !     Look  !     In  my  tree, 
I  'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be  !  " 

And  the  brown  thrush  keeps  singing,  "  A  nest  do  you  see, 
And  five  eggs  hid  by  me  in  the  juniper-tree  ? 
Don't  meddle  !  don't  touch  !  little  girl,  little  boy, 
Or  the  world  will  lose  some  of  its  joy  ! 

Now  I  'm  glad  !  now  I  'm  free  ! 

And  I  always  shall  be, 
If  you  never  bring  sorrow  to  me.'' 

So  the  merry  brown  thrush  sings  away  in  the  tree, 
To  you  and  to  me,  to  you  and  to  me, 
And  he  sings  all  the  day,  little  girl,  little  boy, 
"  Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy  ; 

But  long  it  won't  be, 

Don't  you  know  ?  don't  you  see  ? 
Unless  we  are  as  good  as  can  be  ?  " 


Lucy  Larcom. 


WHO    STOLE   THE    BIRD'S   NEST. 

"  To-whit  !  to-whit  !  to-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?  '' 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  71 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  Moo-oo  ! 

Such  a  thing  I  'd  never  do. 

I  gave  you  a  wisp  of  hay, 

But  did  n't  take  your  nest  away. 

Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  Moo-oo  ! 

Such  a  thing  I  'd  never  do." 

"  To-whit !  to-whit !  to-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?  " 

"  Bob-o'-link  !  Bob-o'-link ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum-tree,  to-day  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "  Bow-wow  ! 
I  would  n't  be  so  mean,  any  how  ! 
I  gave  hairs  the  nest  to  make, 
But  the  nest  I  did  not  take. 
Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "  Bow-wow  ! 
I  'm  not  so  mean,  any  how." 

"To-whit!  to-whit!  to-whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?  " 

"  Bob-o'-link !  Bob-o'-link  ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum-tree,  to-day?" 

"  Coo-coo  !  Coo-coo  !  Coo-coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word,  too  ! 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  yellow-breast  ?  " 


72  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  sheep  ;  "  Oh,  no  ! 

I  would  n't  treat  a  poor  bird  so. 

I  gave  wool  the  nest  to  line, 

But  the  nest  was  none  of  mine. 

Baa  !  Baa  ! "  said  the  sheep,  "  Oh,  no, 

I  would  n't  treat  a  poor  bird  so." 

"  To-whit  !  to-whit !  to-whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?  " 

"  Bob-o'-link !  Bob-o'-link! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum-tree,  to-day  ?  " 

' '  Coo-coo  !  Coo-coo  !  Coo-coo ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word,  too  ! 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  yellow-breast  ? 

"  Caw  !   Caw  !  "  cried  the  crow  ; 
"  I  should  like  to  know 
What  thief  took  away 
A  bird's  nest,  to-day  ?  " 

"  Cluck  !  Cluck  ! "  said  the  hen  ; 
"  Don't  ask  me  again, 
Why,  I  have  n't  a  chick 
Would  do  such  a  trick. 
We  all  gave  her  a  feather, 
And  she  wove  them  together. 
I  'd  scorn  to  intrude 
On  her  and  her  brood. 
Cluck !  Cluck  ! "  said  the  hen, 
"  Don't  ask  me  again.'' 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  73 

"  Chirr-a-whirr  !  Chirr-a-whirr  ! 
All  the  birds  make  a  stir ! 
Let  us  find  out  his  name, 
And  all  cry  '  for  shame  ! '  " 

"  I  would  not  rob  a  bird," 
Said  little  Mary  Green  ; 
"  I  think  I  never  heard 
Of  anything  so  mean." 

"  It  is  very  cruel,  too," 
Said  little  Alice  Neal  ; 
"  I  wonder  if  he  knew 
How  sad  the  bird  would  feel  ?  " 

A  little  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
And  went  and  hid  behind  the  bed, 
For  he  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  poor  little  yellow-breast  ; 
And  he  felt  so  full  of  shame, 
He  did  n't  like  to  tell  his  name. 

—  L.  Maria  Child. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

Merrily  swinging  on  briar  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Snug  and  safe  is  this  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


74 


CHILD  LIFE. 


Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright,  black  wedding-coat  ; 
White  are  his  shoulders,  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Look  what  a  nice,  new  coat  is  mine  ; 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Brood,  kind  creature,  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


OUT   OF   DOORS.  75 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she  ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note  ; 
Braggart,  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man, 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight  : 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nice  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 

Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood  : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care, 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 


GUILD  LIFE. 

Nobody  knows,  but  my  mate  and  I, 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  ehee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows, 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  hum-drum  crone  ; 
Off  he  flies  and  we  sing  as  he  goes, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  BLUEBIRD. 

I  know  the  song  that  the  bluebird  is  singing, 
Out  in  the  apple-tree  where  he  is  swinging. 
Brave  little  fellow  !  the  skies  may  be  dreary,  — 
Nothing  cares  he  while  his  heart  is  so  cheery. 

Hark  !  how  the  music  leaps  out  from  his  throat  ! 
Hark  !  was  there  ever  so  merry  a  note  ? 
Listen  a  while,  and  you  '11  hear  what  he 's  saying, 
Up  in  the  apple-tree  swinging  and  swaying. 

"  Dear  little  blossoms  down  under  the  snow, 
You  must  be  weary  of  winter,  I  know  ; 
Hark  while  I  sing  you  a  message  of  cheer  ! 
Summer  is  coming  !   and  spring-time  is  here  ! 

"  Little  white  snow-drop  !   I  pray  you  arise  ; 
Bright  yellow  crocus  !  come  open  your  eyes  ; 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 


77 


Sweet  little  violets,  hid  from  the  cold, 
Put  on  your  mantles  of  purple  and  gold  ; 
Daffodils  !  daffodils  !  say,  do  you  hear  ?  — 
Summer  is  coming  !  and  spring-time  is  here  ! 

—  Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


MILKING. 

Little  dun  cow  to  the  apple-tree  tied. 

Chewing  the  cud  of  reflection, 
I  that  am  milking  you,  sit  by  your  side, 

Lost  in  a  sad  retrospection. 


78  CHILD  LIFE. 

Far  o'er  the  fields  the  tall  daisies  blush  warm, 

For  rosy  the  sunset  is  dying  ; 
Across  the  still  valley,  o'er  meadow  and  farm. 

The  flush  of  its  beauty  is  lying. 

White  foams  the  milk  in  the  pail  at  my  feet  ; 

Clearly  the  robins  are  calling  : 
Soft  blows  the  evening  wind  after  the  heat  ; 

Cool  the  long  shadows  are  falling. 

Little  dun  cow,  'tis  so  tranquil  and  sweet  ! 

Are  you  light-hearted,  I  wonder  ? 
What  do  you  think  about  —  something  to  eat  ? 

On  clover  and  grass  do  you  ponder  ? 

I  am  remembering  days  that  are  dead, 
And  a  brown  little  maid  in  the  gloaming, 

Milking  her  cow,  with  the  west  burning  red 
Over  waves  that  about  her  were  foaming. 

Up  from  the  sad  east  the  deep  shadows  gloomed 
Out  of  the  distance  and  found  her  ; 

Lightly  she  sang,  while  the  solemn  sea  boomed 
Like  a  great  organ,  around  her. 

Under  the  light-house  no  sweet-brier  grew, 
Dry  was  the  grass,  and  no  daisies 

Waved  in  the  wind,  and  the  flowers  were  few 
That  lifted  their  delicate  faces. 

But  0,  she  was  happy,  and  careless,  and  blest, 
Full  of  the  song-sparrow's  spirit  ; 

Grateful  for  life,  for  the  least  and  the  best 
Of  the  blessings  that  mortals  inherit. 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  79 

Fairer  than  gardens  of  Paradise  seemed 

The  desolate  spaces  of  water  ; 
Nature  was  hers  —  clouds  that  frowned,  stars  that  gleamed,  — 

What  beautiful  lessons  they  taught  her  ! 

Would  I  could  find  you  again,  little  maid, 

Striving  with  utmost  endeavor,  — 
Could  find  in  my  breast  that  light  heart,  unafraid, 

That  has  vanished  forever  and  ever  ! 

— ■  Gelia  Thaxter. 


THE  COW-BOY'S  SONG. 

"  Moolt  cow,  mooly  cow,  home  from  the  wood 
They  sent  me  to  fetch  you  as  fast  as  I  could. 
The  sun  has  gone  down  :  it  is  time  to  go  home. 
Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  why  don't  you  come  ? 
Your  udders  are  full,  and  the  milkmaid  is  there, 
And  the  children  all  waiting  then*  supper  to  share. 
I  have  let  the  long  bars  down,  —  why  don't  you  pass  through  ?  " 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "Moo-o-o  !" 

"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  have  you  not  been 
Regaling  all  day  where  the  pastures  are  green  ? 
No  doubt  it  was  pleasant,  dear  mooly,  to  see 
The  clear  running  brook  and  the  wide-spreading  tree, 
The  clover  to  crop,  and  the  streamlet  to  wade, 
To  drink  the  cool  water  and  lie  in  the  shade  • 
But  now  it  is  night  :  they  are  waiting  for  you.  " 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo  o-o  ! " 

"  Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  where  do  you  go, 

When  all  the  green  pastures  are  covered  with  snow  ? 


80  CHILD   LIFE. 

You  go  to  the  barn,  and  we  feed  you  with  hay, 
And  the  maid  goes  to  milk  you  there,  every  day  ; 
She  pats  you,  she  loves  you,  she  strokes  your  sleek  hide, 
She  speaks  to  you  kindly,  and  sits  by  your  side  : 
Then  come  along  home,  pretty  mooly  cow,  do.  " 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o  ! " 


^^^^^w^P?^ 


"Mooly  cow,  mooly  cow,  whisking  your  tail, 
The  milkmaid  is  waiting,  I  say,  with  her  pail  ; 
She  tucks  up  her  petticoats,  tidy  and  neat, 
And  places  the  three-legged  stool  for  her  seat :  — 
What  can  you  be  staring  at,  mooly  ?     You  know 
That  we  ought  to  have  gone  home  an  hour  ago. 
How  dark  it  is  growing  !     O,  what  shall  I  do  ? " 
The  mooly  cow  only  said,  "  Moo-o-o  ! " 

—  Mrs.  Anna  M.  Wells. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  81 


OLD  DOBBIN. 


Here  's  a  song  for  old  Dobbin,  whose  temper  and  worth 
Were  too  rare  to  be  spurned  on  the  score  of  his  birth. 
He 's  a  creature  of  trust,  and  what  more  should  we  heed  ? 
"Tis  deeds,  and  not  blood,  make  the  man  and  the  steed. 

He  was  bred  in  the  forest,  and  turned  on  the  plain, 
Where  the  thistle-burs  clung  to  his  fetlocks  and  mane  : 
All  ugly  and  rough,  not  a  soul  could  espy 
The  spark  of  good-nature  that  dwelt  in  his  eye. 

The  summer  had  waned,  and  the  autumn  months  rolled 
Into  those  of  stern  winter,  so  dreary  and  cold  ; 
But  the  north  wind  might  whistle,  the  snow-flake  might  dance, 
The  colt  of  the  common  was  left  to  his  chance. 

Half-starved  and  half-frozen,  the  hail  storm  would  pelt 
Till  his  shivering  limbs  told  the  pangs  that  he  felt  ; 
But  we  pitied  the  brute,  and,  though  laughed  at  by  all, 
We  filled  him  a  manger  and  gave  him  a  stall. 

He  was  fond  as  a  spaniel,  and  soon  he  became 

The  pride  of  the  herd-boy,  the  pet  of  the  dame. 

'Tis  well  that  his  market-price  cannot  be  known  ; 

But  we  christened  him  Dobbin,  and  called  him  our  own. 

He  grew  out  of  colthood,  and,  lo !  what  a  change  ! 
The  knowing  ones  said  it  was  "  mortally  strange  ;  " 
For  the  foal  of  the  forest,  the  colt  of  the  waste, 
Attracted  the  notice  of  jockeys  of  taste. 

The  line  of  his  symmetry  was  not  exact, 
But  his  paces  were  clever,  his  mould  was  compact  ; 
And  his  shaggy  thick  coat  now  appeared  with  a  gloss, 
Shining  out  like  the  gold  that 's  been  purged  of  its  dross. 


82  CHILD  LIFE. 

We  broke  him  for  service,  and  tamely  he  wore 
Girth  and  rein,  seeming  proud  of  the  thraldom  he  bore  ; 
Each  farm,  it  is  known,  must  possess  an  "  odd"  steed 
And  Dobbin  was  ours,  for  all  times  and  all  need. 

He  carried  the  master  to  barter  his  grain, 

And  ever  returned  with  him  safely  again  : 

There  was  merit  in  that,  for  —  deny  it  who  may  — 

When  the  master  could  not,  Dobbin  could  find  his  way. 

The  dairy-maid  ventured  her  eggs  on  his  back, 
'Twas  him,  and  him  only,  she  'd  trust  with  the  pack  ; 
The  team-horses  jolted,  the  roadster  played  pranks  ; 
So  Dobbin  alone  had  her  faith  and  her  thanks. 

We  fun-loving  urchins  would  group  by  his  side  ; 

We  might  fearlessly  mount  him,  and  daringly  ride  ; 

We  might  creep  through  his  legs,  we  might  plait  his  long  tail, 

But  his  temper  and  patience  were  sure  not  to  fail. 

We  would  brush  his  bright  hide  till  'twas  free  from  a  speck  ; 
We  kissed  his  brown  muzzle,  and  hugged  his  thick  neck  ; 
Oh  !  we  prized  him  like  life,  and  a  heart-breaking  sob 
Ever  burst  when  they  threatened  to  sell  our  dear  Dob. 

He  stood  to  the  collar,  and  tugged  up  the  hill, 
With  the  pigs  to  the  market,  the  grist  to  the  mill  ; 
With  saddle  or  halter,  in  shaft  or  in  trace, 
He  was  stanch  to  his  work,  and  content  with  his  place. 

When  the  hot  sun  was  crowning  the  toil  of  the  year, 
He  was  sent  to  the  reapers  with  ale  and  good  cheer  ; 
And  none  in  the  corn-field  more  welcome  were  seen 
Than  Dob  and  his  well-laden  panniers,  I  ween. 

Oh  !  those  days  of  pure  bliss  shall  I  ever  forget 
When  we  decked  out  his  head  with  the  azure  rosette  ? 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  83 

All  frantic  with  joy  to  be  off  to  the  fair, 
With  Dobbin,  good  Dobbin,  to  carry  us  there  ? 

He  was  dear  to  us  all,  ay,  for  many  long  years  ;  — 
But,  mercy  !  how 's  this  ?  my  eye 's  filling  with  tears. 
Oh,  how  cruelly  sweet  are  the  echoes  that  start 
When  memory  plays  an  old  tune  on  the  heart ! 

There  are  drops  on  my  cheek ;  there 's  a  throb  in  my  breast, 
But  my  song  shall  not  cease,  nor  my  pen  take  its  rest, 
Till  I  tell  that  old  Dobbin  still  lives  to  be  seen, 
With  his  oats  in  the  stable,  his  tares  on  the  green. 

His  best  years  have  gone  by,  and  the  master  who  gave 
The  stern  yoke  to  his  youth  has  enfranchised  the  slave  ; 
So  browse  on,  my  old  Dobbin,  nor  dream  of  the  knife, 
For  the  wealth  of  a  king  should  not  purchase  thy  life. 

—  Eliza  Cook. 


FARM-YARD  SONG. 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand  ; 
In  the  poplar-tree,  above  the  spring, 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing  ; 

The  early  dews  are  falling  ;  -— 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink  ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink  ; 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 

Cheerily  calling,  — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co'  !  co'  !  co'  ! " 


84  CHILD  LIFE. 

Farther,  farther  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co'  !  co'  !" 


Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  day  : 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away  ; 

In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough  ; 

The  straw 's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mow, 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling  ;  — 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat, 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 
The  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

His  cattle  calling,  — 
"  Go',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co'  1  co'  !  co'  !  " 


OUT  OF  DOOMS.  85 

While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking  those  that  have  gone  astray,  — 
"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co'  !  co' !  " 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 
The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 
Lowing,  pushing,  little  and  great  ; 
About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump, 
The  frolicsome  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling  ;  — 
The  new-milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye  ; 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 
Soothingly  calling,  — 

"  So,  boss  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  so  ! " 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 

Saying,  "  So  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  ! '' 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes. 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 
Without,  the  crickets'  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long  ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock  ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock  ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose  ; 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 
Singing,  calling,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss !  co' !  co' !  co' !  " 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 

Murmuring,  "  So,  boss  !  so !  " 

—  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


86 


CHILD    LIFE. 


BOYS'   PLAY   AND   GIRLS'   PLAY. 


"  Now,  let 's  have  a  game  of  play, 
Lucy,  Jane,  and  little  May  ! 
I  will  be  a  grizzly  bear  : 
Prowling  here  and  prowling  there, 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  87 

Sniffing  round  and  round  about, 
Till  I  find  you  children  out ; 
And  my  dreadful  den  shall  be 
Deep  within  the  hollow  tree." 

"Oh,  no  !  please  not,  Robert  dear, 

Do  not  be  a  grizzly  bear  ! 

Little  May  was  half  afraid 

When  she  heard  the  noise  you  made, 

Roaring  like  a  lion  strong, 

Just  now  as  you  came  along  ; 

And  she  '11  scream  and  start,  to-night, 

If  you  give  her  any  fright." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  be  a  fox  ! 
You  shall  be  the  hens  and  cocks, 
In  the  farmer's  apple-tree, 
Crowing  out  so  lustily  ; 
I  will  softly  creep  this  way  — 
Peep  —  and  pounce  upon  my  prey  ; 
And  I  '11  bear  you  to  my  den  — 
Where  the  fern  grows  in  the  glen." 

"  Oh,  no,  Robert  !  you're  so  strong, 
While  you're  dragging  us  along 
I  'm  afraid  you  '11  tear  our  frocks  : 
We  won't  play  at  hens  and  cocks." 
"  If  you  won't  play  fox  or  bears, 
I  'm  a  dog,  and  you  be  hares  ; 
Then  you  '11  only  have  to  run  ;  — 
Girls  are  never  up  to  fun." 

"  You  've  your  play,  and  we  have  ours  : 
Go  and  climb  the  trees  again  ! 
I,  and  little  May,  and  Jane, 
Are  so  happy  with  our  flowers  ! 


88  CHILD  LIFE. 


Jane  is  calling  foxglove  bells  ; 
May  and  I  are  making  posies, 
And  we  want  to  search  the  dells, 
For  the  latest  summer  roses." 

—  Mrs.  Hawtrey. 


LITTLE   WHITE    LILY. 

Little  white  Lily 
Sat  by  a  stone, 
Drooping  and  waiting 
Till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  white  Lily 
Sunshine  has  fed  ; 
Little  white  Lily 
Is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  white  Lily 
Said,  "  It  is  good  — 
Little  white  Lily's 
Clothing  and  food." 
Little  white  Lily 
Drest  like  a  bride  ! 
Shining  with  whiteness, 
And  crowned  beside  ! 

Little  white  Lily 
Droopeth  with  pain, 
Waiting  and  waiting 
For  the  wet  rain. 
Little  white  Lily 
Holdeth  her  cup  ; 
Rain  is  fast  falling 
And  filling;  it  up. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  89 

Little  white  Lily 
Said,  "  Good  again  — 
When  I  am  thirsty 
To  have  fresh  rain  ! 
Now  I  am  stronger  ; 
Now  I  am  cool  ; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me, 
My  veins  are  so  full." 

Little  white  Lily 
Smells  very  sweet  : 
On  her  head  sunshine, 
Rain  at  her  feet. 
"Thanks  to  the  sunshine, 
Thanks  to  the  rain  ! 
Little  white  Lily 
Is  happy  again  !  " 

—  George  Macdonald. 


BUTTERCUPS   AND   DAISIES. 

Buttercups  and  Daisies, 

Oh  !  the  pretty  flowers  !  . 
Coming  ere  the  spring-time, 

To  tell  of  sunny  hours. 
While  the  trees  are  leafless, 

While  the  fields  are  bare, 
Buttercups  and  Daisies 

Spring  up  everywhere. 

Little  hardy  flowers, 

Like  to  children  poor, 
Playing  in  their  sturdy  health, 

By  their  mother's  door  ; 


90  CHILD  LIFE. 

Purple  with  the  north  wind, 

Yet  alert  and  bold, 
Fearing  not,  and  caring  not, 

Though  they  be  a-cold. 

What  to  them  is  weather  ? 

What  are  stormy  showers  ? 
Buttercups  and  Daisies, 

Are  these  human  flowers  ! 
He  who  gave  them  hardship, 

And  a  life  of  care, 
Gave  them  likewise  hardy  strength, 

And  patient  hearts  to  bear  ! 

Welcome,  yellow  Buttercups  ! 

Welcome,  Daisies  white  ! 
Ye  are  in  my  spirit 

Visioned,  a  delight ! 
Coming  ere  the  spring-time 

Of  sunny  hours  to  tell  :  — 
Speaking  to  our  hearts  of  Him 

Who  doeth  all  things  well. 

—  Mary  Howitt. 


LITTLE   DANDELION. 

Gay  little  Dandelion 

Lights  up  the  meads, 
Swings  on  her  slender  foot, 

Telleth  her  beads, 
Lists  to  the  robin's  note 

Poured  from  above  : 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Asks  not  for  love. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks 

Clothed  but  in  green, 
Where,  in  the  days  agone, 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering 

Violets  delay  : 
True  little  Daudelion 

Greeteth  the  May. 


91 


Brave  little  Dandelion  ! 

Fast  falls  the  snow, 
Bending  the  daffodil's 

Haughty  head  low. 
Under  that  fleecy  tent, 

Careless  of  cold, 
Blithe  little  Dandelion 

Counteth  her  gold. 


92  CHILD  LIFE. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  fair, 
Till  dies  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun, 

Fiercely  and  high  ; 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye. 


Pale  little  Dandelion, 

In  her  white  shroud, 
Heareth  the  angel-breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud  ! 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay  ! 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 

—  Helen  B.  Bostvnck. 


THE  BRAMBLE-FLOWER. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  school-boy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose, 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  woodbines  flaunt,  and  roses  glow 

Through  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers  ; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull, 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  93 

How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill  ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem  ! 
How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still, 

And  thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them, 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 

And  'mid  the  general  hush 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 

The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone  ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead  ; 
The  violet  by  the  mossed  gray  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head  ; 
But  thou,  wild  bramble,  back  dost  bring 

In  all  their  beauteous  power 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring, 

And  boyhood's  blossom  hour. 
Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake  !  once  more 

Thou  biddest  me  be  a  boy, 
To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

—  Ebenezer  Elliott. 


JACK  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

Jack  in  the  pulpit 

Preaches  to-day, 
Under  the  green  trees 

Just  over  the  way. 
Squirrel  and  song-sparrow 

High  on  their  perch, 
Hear  the  sweet  lily-bells 

Ringing  to  church. 


M  CHILD  LIFE. 

Come,  hear  what  his  reverence 

Rises  to  say 
In  his  low  painted  pulpit 

This  calm  Sabbath-day. 
Fair  is  the  canopy 

Over  him  seen, 
Pencilled  by  Nature's  hand, 

Black,  brown  and  green. 
Green  is  his  surplice, 

Green  are  his  bands  ; 
In  his  queer  little  pulpit 

The  little  priest  stands. 

In  black  and  gold  velvet, 

So  gorgeous  to  see, 
Comes  with  his  bass  voice 

The  chorister  bee. 
Green  fingers  playing 

Unseen  on  wind-lyres,  — 
Low  singing  bird  voices  ■ — 

These  are  his  choirs. 
The  violets  are  deacons 

I  know  by  the  sign 
That  the  cups  which  they  carry 

Are  purple  with  wine. 
And  the  columbines  bravely 

As  sentinels  stand 
On  the  look-out  with  all  their 

Red  trumpets  in  hand. 

Meek-faced  anemones 
Drooping  and  sad  ; 

Great  yellow  violets, 
Smilinff  out  glad  : 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  95 

Buttercups'  faces 

Beaming  and  bright  ; 
Clovers,  with  bonnets  — 

Some  red  and  some  white  ; 
Daisies,  their  white  fingers 

Half-clasped  in  prayer  ; 
Dandelions,  proud  of 

The  gold  of  then"  hair  ; 
Innocents,  children 

Guileless  and  frail, 
Meek  little  faces 

Upturned  and  pale  ; 
Wild-wood  geraniums, 

All  in  their  best, 
Languidly  leaning 

In  purple  gauze  dressed  :  — 
All  are  assembled 

This  sweet  Sabbath-day 
To  hear  what  the  priest 

In  his  pulpit  will  say. 


Look  !  white  Indian  pipes 

On  the  green  mosses  lie  ! 
Who  has  been  smoking 

Profanely  so  nigh  ? 
Rebuked  by  the  preacher 

The  mischief  is  stopped, 
But  the  sinners,  in  haste, 

Have  their  little  pipes  dropped 
Let  the  wind  with  the  fragrance 

Of  fern  and  black  birch, 
Blow  the  smell  of  the  smoking 

Clean  out  of  our  church  ! 


CHILD  LIFE. 

So  much  for  the  preacher  : 

The  sermon  comes  next,  — 
Shall  we  tell  how  he  preached  it, 

And  where  was  his  text  ? 
Alas  !  like  too  many 

Grown  up  folks  who  play 
At  worship  in  churches 

Man-builded  to-day,  — 
We  heard  not  the  preacher 

Expound  or  discuss  ; 
But  we  looked  at  the  people, 

And  they  looked  at  us. 
We  saw  all  their  dresses, 

Their  colors  and  shapes  ; 
The  trim  of  their  bonnets, 

The  cut  of  their  capes. 
We  heard  the  wind-organ, 

The  bee  and  the  bird, 
But  of  Jack  in  the  Pulpit 

We  heard  not  a  word  ! 


THE    YIOLET. 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 

A  modest  violet  grew  ; 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 

As  if  to  hide  from  view. 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower, 
Its  colors  bright  and  fair  ! 

It  might  have  graced  a  rosy  bower. 
Instead  of  hidina:  there. 


OUT  OF  BOORS.  97 

Yet  there  it  was  content  to  bloom, 

In  modest  tints  arrayed  ; 
And  there  diffused  its  sweet  perfume, 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

Then  let  me  to  the  valley  go, 

This  pretty  flower  to  see, 
That  I  may  also  learn  to  grow 

In  sweet  humility. 

—  Jane  Taylor. 


CHILD  LIFE. 


WINTER. 

Old  winter  is  a  sturdy  one, 

And  lasting  stuff  he 's  made  of  : 

His  flesh  is  firm  as  ironstone, 
There's  nothing  he's  afraid  of. 

He  spreads  his  coat  upon  the  heath, 

Nor  yet  to  warm  it  lingers  ; 
He  scouts  the  thought  of  aching  teeth, 

Or  chilblains  on  his  fiugers. 

Of  flowers  that  bloom  or  birds  that  sing, 
Full  little  cares  or  knows  he  ; 

He  hates  the  fire,  and  hates  the  spring, 
And  all  that 's  warm  and  cosy. 

But  when  the  foxes  bark  aloud 
On  frozen  lake  and  river,  — 

When  round  the  fire  the  people  crowd, 
And  rub  their  hands  and  shiver,  — 


OUT  OF  BOORS. 


93 


When  frost  is  splitting  stone  and  wall, 

And  trees  come  crashing  after, 
That  hates  he  not,  he  loves  it  all,  — 

Then  bursts  he  out  in  laughter. 

His  home  is  by  the  North  Pole's  strand, 

Whore  earth  and  sea  are  frozen  ; 
His  summer-house,  we  understand, 

In  Switzerland  he 's  chosen. 

Now  from  the  North  he's  hither  hied, 

To  show  his  strength  and  power  ; 
And  when  he  comes  we  stand  aside, 

And  look  at  him  and  cower. 

—  From  the  German. 


100 


CHILD  LIFE. 


THE   CUCKOO. 

ail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  raesseuger  of  spring  ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear  : 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

Delightful  visitant  !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  spring  to  hear, 
And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  ! 

0  could  I  fly,  I  >d  fly  with  thee  ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  spring.  —  John  Logan. 


OUT  OF  BOORS. 


101 


THE   BROOK 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 


102  CHILD  LIFE. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

1  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles  ; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays  ; 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  bank  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  gor 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  gor 
But  I  s;o  on  forever. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  108 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grass)'  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE. 

Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around, 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky  ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gaily  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding-bee  hums  merrily  by. 


104 


CHILD  LIFE. 


The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 


;--V;:: 


There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower ; 

There  's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree  ; 
There 's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 

And  a  lauffh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  105 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 

On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 
On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles,  — 

Ay,  look,  and  he  '11  smile  thy  gloom  away  ! 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


CORN-FIELDS. 

When  on  the  breath  of  Autumn's  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating,  like  an  idle  thought, 
The  fair,  white  thistle-down,  — ■ 

Oh,  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 

Upon  the  golden  harvest-hill  ! 

What  joy  in  dreaming  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn  ■ 
And  see  all  round,  on  sunlit  slopes, 

The  piled-up  shocks  of  corn  ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore  ! 

I  feel  the  day  ;  I  see  the  field  ; 

The  quivering  of  the  leaves  ; 
And  good  old  Jacob,  and  his  horse,  — 

Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ! 
And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 
To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream  ! 


106  CHILD  LIFE. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke,     ' 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabitess  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there  ! 

Again,  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight,  — 
God's  living  gift  of  love  unto 

The  kind,  good  Shunamite  ; 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  Held. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see  ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  take  his  way 
Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath-day. 

Oh  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 
The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 

To  me  are  like  a  dream  ; 
The  sunshine,  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there  ! 

—  Mary  Howitt. 


LEGENDARY. 


LEGENDARY. 


AMONG  GREEN  PLEASANT  MEADOWS. 

Among  green,  pleasant  meadows, 

All  in  a  grove  so  wild, 
Was  set  a  marble  image 

Of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child. 

Here  oft,  on  summer  evenings, 

A  lovely  boy  would  rove, 
To  play  beside  the  image 

That  sanctified  the  grove 

Oft  sat  his  mother  by  him, 

Among  the  shadows  dim, 
And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 

Was  once  a  child  like  him. 

"  And  now  from  highest  heaven 

He  doth  look  down  each  day, 
And  sees  whate  'er  thou  doest, 

And  hears  what  thou  dost  say  1 " 

Thus  spoke  his  tender  mother  ; 

And,  on  an  evening  bright, 
When  the  red,  round  sun  descended 

Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light 


110  CHILD  LLFE. 

Again  the  boy  was  playing  ; 

And  earnestly  said  he, 
"  0  beautiful  child  Jesus, 

Come  down  and  play  with  me  ! 

"  I  will  find  thee  flowers  the  fairest, 
And  weave  for  thee  a  crowu  ; 

I  will  get  thee  ripe,  red  strawberries, 
If  thou  wilt  but  come  down. 

"  0  holy,  holy  mother  ! 

Put  him  down  from  off  thy  knee  ; 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 

There  are  none  to  play  with  me." 

Thus  spoke  the  boy  so  lovely, 
The  while  his  mother  heard, 

And  on  his  prayer  she  pondered, 
But  spoke  to  him  no  word. 

That  self-same  night  she  dreamed 
A  lovely  dream  of  joy  : 

She  thought  she  saw  young  Jesus 
There,  playing  with  the  boy. 

"  And  for  the  fruits  and  flowers 
Which  thou  hast  brought  to  me, 

Rich  blessing  shall  be  given 
A  thousand-fold  to  thee. 

"  For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

Thou  shalt  roam  with  me  at  will  ; 

And  of  bright  fruit  celestial 

Thou  shalt  have,  dear  child,  thy  fill 


LEGENDARY.  Ill 


Thus  tenderly  and  kindly 
The  fair  child  Jesus  spoke  ; 

And,  full  of  careful  musings, 
The  anxious  mother  woke 

And  thus  it  was  accomplished  : 
In  a  short  month  and  a  day, 

That  lovely  boy,  so  gentle, 
Upon  his  death-bed  lay. 

And  thus  he  spoke,  in  dying  : 

"  0  mother  dear,  I  see 
The  beautiful  child  Jesus 

A-coming  down  to  me  ! 

"  And  in  his  hand  he  beareth 
Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow, 

And  red  and  juicy  strawberries  ;  — 
Dear  mother,  let  me  go  !  " 

He  died — but  that  fond  mother 
Her  sorrow  did  restrain  ; 

For  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again  ! 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON-LOW. 

"  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  see  ! " 

"  And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low  ?  " 
"  I  saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 


112  CHILD  LIFE. 

*  And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 
All  up  on  the  Caldon  Hill  ?  " 

"  I  heard  the  drops  of  water  made, 
And  I  heard  the  corn-ears  fill." 

"  Oh  tell  me  all,  my  Mary  — 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know  ; 
For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low." 

"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine  ; 

"  And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings, 
And  their  dancing  feet  so  small  ; 

But  oh  !  the  sound  of  their  talking 
Was  merrier  far  than  all  !  " 

"  And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  you  did  hear  them  say  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  all,  my  mother, 
But  let  me  have  my  way. 

"  And  some  they  played  with  the  water 
And  rolled  it  down  the  hill  ; 
And  this/  they  said,  '  shall  speedily  turn 
The  poor  old  miller's  mill  ; 

" '  For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May  ; 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 


LEGENDARY.  113 

"  '  Oh  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  ! 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes  ! ' 

"  And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds, 

That  sounded  over  the  hill, 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill  ! 

"  '  And  there,'  said  they,  'the  merry  winds  go 

Away  from  every  horn  ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn  : 

"  '  Oh,  the  poor  blind  widow  — 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 
She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  stiff  and  strong  ! ' 

"  And  some  they  brought  the  brown  linseed, 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low  : 
'  And  this,'  said  they,  '  by  the  sunrise, 

In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow  ! 

"  '  Oh,  the  poor  lame  weaver  ! 

How  will  he  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night  ! ' 

"  And  then  upspoke  a  brownie, 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin  ; 
'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow ',  said  he, 

1  And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 


114  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  '  I  've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I  want  to  spin  another — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother  ! ' 

"  And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 

And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free  ; 
And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 

There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

"And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 

The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 
And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 

That  round  about  me  lay. 

"  But,  as  I  came  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard,  afar  below, 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go  ! 

"  And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field, 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 

All  standing  stiff  and  green  I 

"  And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  high  ; 
But  I  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate 

With  the  good  news  in  his  eye  ! 

"  Now,  this  is  all  that  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see  ; 
So,  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I  'm  tired  as  I  can  be  ! " 

—  Mary  Howilt- 


LEGENDARY.  115 


THE   CHILDREN  IN   THE   MOON. 

Hearken,  child,  unto  a  story  ! 

For  the  moon  is  in  the  sky, 
And  across  her  shield  of  silver 

See  two  tiny  cloudlets  fly. 

Watch  them  closely,  mark  them  sharply, 
As  across  the  light  they  pass  : 

Seem  they  not  to  have  the  figures 
Of  a  little  lad  and  lass  ? 

See,  my  child,  across  their  shoulders 

Lies  a  little  pole  !  and  lo  ! 
Yonder  speck  is  just  the  bucket 

Swinging  softly  to  and  fro. 

It  is  said  these  little  children, 

Many  and  many  a  summer  night, 

To  a  little  well  far  northward 
Wandered  in  the  still  moonlight. 

To  the  wayside-well  they  trotted, 
Filled  their  little  buckets  there  ; 

And  the  moon-man,  looking  downward, 
Saw  how  beautiful  they  were. 

Quoth  the  man,  "How  vexed  and  sulky 

Looks  the  little  rosy  boy  ! 
But  the  little  handsome  maiden 

Trips  behind  him  full  of  joy. 


116  CHILD  LIFE. 

"To  the  well  behind  the  hedgerow 
Trot  the  little  lad  and  maiden  ; 

From  the  well  behind  the  hedgerow 
Now  the  little  pail  is  laden. 

"  How  they  please  me  !  how  they  tempt  me  ! 

Shall  I  snatch  them  np  to-night  ?  — 
Snatch  them,  set  them  here  for  ever 

In  the  middle  of  my  light  ? 

"Children,  ay,  and  children's  children, 
Should  behold  my  babes  on  high  ; 

And  my  babes  should  smile  for  ever, 
Calling  others  to  the  sky  ! " 

Thus  the  philosophic  moon-man 

Muttered  many  years  ago  ; 
Set  the  babes,  with  pole  and  bucket, 

To  delight  the  folks  below. 

Never  is  the  bucket  empty, 

Never  are  the  children  old  ; 
Ever  when  the  moon  is  shining 

We  the  children  may  behold. 

Ever  young  and  ever  little, 

Ever  sweet  and  ever  fair  ! 
When  thou  art  a  man,  my  darling, 

Still  the  children  Avill  be  there. 

Ever  young  and  ever  little, 

They  will  smile  when  thou  art  old  ; 

When  thy  locks  are  thin  and  silver, 
Theirs  will  still  be  shining  gold. 


LEGENDARY.  117 

They  will  haunt  thee  from  their  heaven, 

Softly  beckoning  down  the  gloom  ; 
Smiling  in  eternal  sweetness 

On  thy  cradle,  on  thy  tomb  ! 

—  From  the  Scandinavian. 


HIAWATHA'S    CHILDHOOD. 

By  the  shores  of  Gitchee  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled  old  Nokomis 

Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Rocked  him  in  his  linden  ci"adle, 

Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 

Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 

Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 

"Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee  ! " 

Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 

"  Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet ! 

Who  is  this  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 

With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 

Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet !  " 


118 


CB1LD  LIFE. 


Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven  ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses  ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 
Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  winter  ; 
Showed  the  broad,  white  road  hi  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 


LEGENDARY.  119 


At  the  door,  on  summer  evenings, 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha  ; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 
Sounds  of  music,   words  of  wonder  ; 
"  Minnie-wawa  !  "  said  the  pine-trees, 
"  Mudway-aushka  !  "  said  the  water. 
Saw  the  fire-fly  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him  : 
"  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids  !  " 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  "What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?" 
A  nd  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"  Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 
Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight  ; 
Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her  ; 
'T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?  " 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 


120  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  'Tis  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there  ; 

All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 

All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 

Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"What  is  that?"  he  cried,  in  terror  ; 
"What  is  that,"  he  said,  "  Nokomis?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Chickens." 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Brothers." 

—  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


LEGENDARY. 


121 


THE  PIED    PIPER    OF    HAMELIN. 


Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city  ; 

The  river  Weser  deep  and  wide 
Washes  its  walls  on  the  southern  side  ; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
Prom  vermin,  was  a  pity 


122  CHILD  LIFE. 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  their  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town-hall  came  flocking  : 
"'Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  Mayor's  a  noddy  : 
And  as  for  our  Corporation  •—  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What 's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ! 
Rouse  up,  Sirs  !     Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we  're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we  '11  send  you  packing  ! " 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sat  in  council, 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence  : 
"  Tor  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  ! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain  — 
I  'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 


LEGENDARY.  123 

Oh,  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  ! " 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 

At  the  chamber  door,  but  a  gentle  tap  ? 

"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  what's  that  ? 

Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 

Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat  ! 

"  Come  in,"  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger  : 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure  ! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 

Was  half  of  yellow,  and  half  of  red  ; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 

With  sharp  blue  eyes  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek,  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in. 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin  ! 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attbe  : 

Quoth  one,  "  It 's  as  if  my  great-grandsire, 

Starting  up  at  the  trump  of  Doom's  tone, 

Had  walked  this  Avay  from  his  painted  tombstone  ! " 

He  advanced  to  the  council  table  : 

And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole,  the  toad,  the  newt,  the  viper  ; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper. 

Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham 


124  CHILD  LIFE. 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats  ; 
I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre  bats  : 
And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 

Will  you  give  a  thousand  guilders  ?  " 
"  One  ?  fifty  thousand  !  "  was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 
Then  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled  ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  had  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling  ; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling  — 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails,  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped,  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished, 
Save  one,  who  stout  as  Julius  Csesar, 


LEGENDARY.  125 

Swam  across,  and  lived  to  carry 

(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 

Which  "was,  "  At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

And  putting  apples  wondrous  ripe 

Into  a  cider  press's  gripe  ; 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub  boards, 

And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve  cupboards, 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil  flasks, 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter  casks  ; 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 

(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp,  or  by  psaltery 

Is  breathed)  called  out,  '  Oh  rats,  rejoice  ! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery  ! 

So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 

Breakfast,  dinner,  supper,  luncheon  ! ' 

And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar  puncheon, 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 

Grlorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  '  Come,  bore  me  ! ' 

I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple  ; 

"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  and  get  long  poles  ! 

Poke  out  the  nests,  and  block  up  the  holes  ! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 

Of  the  rats  !  "     When  suddenly,  up  the  face 

Of  the  Piper  perched  in  the  market-place, 

With  a  ' '  First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders  ! " 

A  thousand  guilders  !     The  Mayor  looked  blue. 
So  did  the  Corporation  too 


126  CHILD  LIFE. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Yin-de-Grave,  Hock  ; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow  ! 

"Besides,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink  ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what 's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke  ; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty  : 

A  thousand  guilders  !  come,  take  fifty  !  " 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"  No  trifling  !  I  can't  wait  !  beside 

I  've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner-time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  head-cook's  pottage,  all  he 's  rich  in, 

For  having  left  in  the  caliph's  kitchen, 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor. 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver, 

With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver  ! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 

"How  ?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'ye  think  I'll  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook  ? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ?     Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst." 


LEGENDARY.  127 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street, 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth,  straight  cane  ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air), 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling, 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling, 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering, 
And  like  fowls  in  a  farmyard  when  barley  is  scattering- 
Out  came  the  children  running  : 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 


The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by  — 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

And  now  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters  I 

However  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed. 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed  ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top  ; 


128  CHILD  LIFE. 

He 's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop  !  " 
When,  lo  !  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 
A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 
As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed  ; 
And  the  Piper  advanced,  and  the  children  followed 
And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 
The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast- 
Did  I  say,  all  ?     No  !     One  was  lame, 
And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way  ; 
And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say,  — 
"  It 's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left  ! 
I  can't  forget  that  I  'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 
Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me  : 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land. 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 
Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 
And  everything  was  strange  and  new  ; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 
And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow-deer, 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 
And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings  ; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 
The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  hill, 
Left  alone  against  my  will, 
To  go  now  limping  as  before, 
And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  !  " 

The  Mayor  sent  east,  west,  north,  and  south 
To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth, 


LEGENDARY.  129 

Wherever  it  was  man's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he  'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  'twas  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for  ever, 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly, 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 

"  And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six  :  " 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street  — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor, 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn  ; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  great  church  window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away  ;  — 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there 's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people,  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  ago  in  a  mighty  band, 


130  CHILD  LIFE. 

Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

So  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men,  —  especially  pipers  ; 
And  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from  mice 
If  we  've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our  promise. 

—  Robert  Browning. 


GREEDINESS  PUNISHED. 

It  was  the  cloister  Grabow,  in  the  land  of  Usedom, 
For  years  had  God 's  free  goodness  to  fill  its  larder  come  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

Along  the  shore  came  swimming,  to  give  the  folks  good  cheer, 
Who  dwelt  within  the  cloister,  two  fishes  every  year  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

Two  sturgeons  ■ —  two  great  fat  ones  ;  —  and  then  this  law  was  set, 
That  one  of  them  should  yearly  be  taken  in  a  net : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

The  other  swam  away,  then,  until  next  year  came  round, 
When,  with  a  new  companion,  he  punctually  was  found  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

So  then  again,  they  caught  one,  and  served  him  in  the  dish, 
And  regularly  caught  they,  year  in,  year  out,  a  fish  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

The  year,  the  time  appointed  two  such  noble  fishes  brought, 
The  question  was  a  hard  one,  which  of  them  should  be  caught  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 


LEGENDARY.  131 

They  caught  them  both  together  —  but  every  greedy  wight 
Grew  sick  from  over-eating  —  it  served  the  gluttons  right  ;  — 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

This  was  the  least  of  sorrows  —  hear  how  the  cup  ran  o'er  ! 
Henceforward,  to  the  cloister  no  fish  came  swimming  more  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

So  long  had  God  supplied  them  of  his  free  grace  alone, 
That,  now  it  is  denied  them,  the  fault  is  all  their  own  : 
They  might  have  been  contented  ! 

—  From  the  German  of  Riickert. 


THE   TOY    OF    THE    GIANT'S    CHILD. 

Burg  Niedeck  is  a  mountain  in  Alsace,  high  and  strong, 
Where  once  a  noble  castle  stood,  —  the  Giants  held  it  long  ; 
Its  very  ruins  now  are  lost,  its  site  is  waste  and  lone, 
And  if  ye  seek  for  Giants  there,  they  all  are  dead  and  gone. 

The  Giant's  daughter  once  came  forth  the  castle-gate  before, 
And  played,  with  all  a  child's  delight,  beside  her  father's  door  ; 
Then  sauntering  down  the  precipice,  the  girl  did  gladly  go, 
To  see,  perchance,  how  matters  went,  in  the  little  world  below. 

With  few  and  easy  steps  she  passed  the  mountain  and  the  wood, 
At  length  near  Haslach,  at  the  place   where  mankind  dwelt,  she 

stood  ; 
And  many  a  town  and  village  fair,  and  many  a  field  so  green, 
Before  her  wondering  eyes  appeared,  a  strange  and  curious  scene. 

And  as  she  gazed,  in  wonder  lost,  on  all  the  scene  around, 

She  saw  a  Peasant  at  her  feet,  a-tilling  of  the  ground  ; 

The  little  creature  crawled  about  so  slowly  here  and  there, 

And,  lighted  by  the  morning  sun,  his  plough  shone  bright  and  fair. 


132  CHILD   LIFE. 

"Oh,  pretty  plaything!"    cried   the  child,    "I'll  take  thee  home 

with  me," 
Then  with  her  infant  hands  she  spread  her  kerchief  on  her  knee, 
And  cradling  horse,  and  man,  and  plough,  all  gently  on  her  arm, 
She  bore  them  home,  with  cautious  steps,  afraid  to  do  them  harm  ! 

She  hastes  with  joyous  steps  and  quick  ; —  (we  know  what  children 

are), 
And  spying  soon  her  father  out,  she  shouted  from  afar, 
"  0  father,  clearest  father,  such  a  plaything  I  have  found, 
I  never  saw  so  fair  a  one  on  our  own  mountain  ground." 

Her  father  sat  at  table  then,  and  drank  his  wine  so  mild, 
And,  smiling  with  a  parent's  smile,  he  asked  the  happy  child, 
"What  struggling  creature  hast  thou  brought  so  carefully  to  me  ? 
Thou  leap'st  for  very  joy,  my  girl ;  come,  open,  let  us  see  ?" 

She  opes  her  kerchief  carefully,  and  gladly,  you  may  deem, 
And  shows  her  eager  sire  the  plough,  the  Peasant,  and  his  team  ; 
And  when  she'd  placed  before  his  sight  the  new  found  pretty  toy, 
She  clasped  her  hands,  and  screamed  aloud,  and  cried  for  very  joy- 

But  her  father  looked  quite  seriously,  and  shaking  slow  his  head, 
"  What  hast  thou  brought  me  home,  my  child?     This  is  no  toy,"  he 

said  ; 
"  Go,  take  it  quickly  back  again,  and  put  it  down  below  ; 
The  Peasant  is  no  plaything,  girl,  —  how  could  'st  thou  think  him  so  ? 

"  Go,  go,  without  a  sigh  or  sob,  and  do  my  will,"  he  said, 
"  For  know,  without  the  Peasant,  girl,  we  none  of  us  had  bread  ; 
'T  is  from  the  Peasant's  hardy  stock  the  race  of  Giants  are  ; 
The  Peasant  is  no  plaything,  child,  —  no,  —  God  forbid  he  were  ! '' 

—  From  the  German  of  Chamisso. 


PICTURES,  FANCIES,  AND 

MEMORIES. 


PICTURES,  FANCIES,  AND  MEMORIES. 


THE  PIPER. 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child  ; 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me, 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb  1 " 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  ! " 

So  I  piped  ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  !  " 
So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thou  down,  and  write 

In  a  book,  that  all  may  read  !  " 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear  ; 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

—  William  Blake. 


136  CHILD    LIFE. 


SONG  OF  THE  ELFIN  MILLER. 

Full  merrily  rings  the  millstone  round, 

Full  merrily  rings  the  wheel, 
Full  merrily  gushes  out  the  grist  — 

Come,  taste  my  fragrant  meal  ! 
As  sends  the  lift  its  snowy  drift, 

So  the  meal  comes  in  a  shower  ; 
Work,  fairies,  fast,  for  time  flies  past — 

I  borrowed  the  mill  an  hour. 

The  miller  he 's  a  worldly  man, 

And  maun  hae  double  fee  ; 
So  draw  the  sluice  of  the  churl's  dam, 

And  let  the  stream  come  free. 
Shout,  fairies,  shout  !  see,  gushing  out, 

The  meal  comes  like  a  river  : 
The  top  of  the  grain  on  hill  and  plain 

Is  ours,  and  shall  be  ever. 

One  elf  goes  chasing  the  wild  bat's  wing 

And  one  the  white  owl's  horn  ; 
One  hunts  the  fox  for  the  white  o'  his  tail, 

And  we  winna  hae  him  till  morn. 
One  idle  fay,  with  the  glow-worm's  ray, 

Runs  glimmering  'mong  the  mosses  : 
Another  goes  tramp  wi '  the  will-o-wisps '  lamp, 

To  light  a  lad  to  the  lasses. 

0  haste,  my  brown  elf,  bring  me  corn 

From  Bonnie  Blackwood  plains  ; 
Go,  gentle  fairy,  bring  me  grain 

From  green  Dalgona  mains  ; 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  137 

But,  pride  of  a'  at  Closeburn  ha', 

Fair  is  the  corn  and  fatter  ; 
Taste,  fairies,  taste,  a  gallanter  grist 

Has  never  been  wet  with  water. 

Hilloah  !  my  hopper  is  heaped  high  ; 

Hark  to  the  well-hung  wheels  ! 
They  sing  for  joy  ;  the  dusty  roof 

It  clatters  and  it  reels. 
Haste,  elves,  and  turn  yon  mountain  burn  — ■ 

Bring  streams  that  shine  like  siller  ; 
The  dam  is  down,  the  moon  sinks  soon, 

And  I  maun  grind  my  miller. 

Ha  !  bravely  done,  my  wanton  elves, 

That  is  a  foaming  stream  : 
See  how  the  dust  from  the  mill  flies, 

And  chokes  the  cold  moon-beam. 
Haste,  fairies,  fleet  come  baptized  feet, 

Come  sack  and  sweep  up  clean, 
And  meet  me  soon,  ere  sinks  the  moon, 

In  thy  green  vale,  Dalreen. 

—  Allan  Cuniiigham. 


THE  FAIRY  FOLK. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 


138  CHILD  LIFE. 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He 's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music, 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow  ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag  leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  139 

By  the  craggy  hillside, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
.  They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite  ? 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-hunting, 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

—  William  Allingham. 


CASTLES  IX  THE  AIR. 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn 

Who  sits  with  careless  grace, 
Glowring  in  the  fire, 

With  his  wee,  round  face, 
Laughing  at  the  gusty  flame,  — 

What  sees  he  there  ? 
Ha  1  the  young  dreamer 

Builds  castles  in  the  air. 

His  wee,  chubby  face, 

And  his  rough,  curly  head, 

Are  dancing  and  nodding 
To  the  fire  in  its  bed  : 


140 


CHILD  LIFE. 

He'll  brown  his  rosy  cheeks, 
And  singe  his  sunny  hair, 

Staring  at  the  imps 

With  their  castles  in  the  air. 


He  sees  lofty  towers 

Kising  to  the  moon  ! 
He  sees  little  soldiers 

Pulling  them  all  down. 
Worlds  rushing  up  and  down, 

Blazing  with  a  flare,  — 
See  how  he  leaps, 

As  they  glimmer  in  the  air. 

For  all  so  sage  he  looks, 
W  hat  can  the  laddie  ken  ? 

He 's  thinking  upon  nothing  ; 
Like  many  mighty  men. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  141 

A  wee  thing  makes  us  think, 

A  small  thing  makes  us  stare,  — 
There  are  more  folks  than  him 

Building  castles  in  the  air. 

Such  a  night  in  winter 

May  well  make  him  cold  ; 
His  chin  upon  his  chubby  hand 

Will  soon  make  him  old. 
His  brow  is  smooth  and  broad,  — 

Oh  pray  that  busy  care 
Would  let  the  wean  alone 

With  his  castles  in  the  air  ! 

He  '11  glower  at  the  fire, 

And  he  '11  glance  at  the  light  I 
But  many  sparkling  stars 

Are  swallowed  up  in  night  ; 
Older  eyes  than  his 

Are  dazzled  by  a  glare  — 
Hearts  are  broken  —  heads  are  turned 

With  castles  in  the  air. 

—  James  Ballantyne 


142 


CHILD   LIFE. 


I  see  the  Moon,  and  the  Moon  sees 

me  ; 
God  bless  the  Moon,  and  God  bless 

me! 

—  Old  Rhyme. 


Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are  you  roving  ? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  whom  are  you  loving  ? 

All  that  love  me. 

Are  you  not  tired  with  rolling,  and  never 

Resting  to  sleep  ? 
Why  look  so  pale  and  so  sad,  as  forever 

Wishing  to  weep  ? 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  143 

Ask  me  not  this,  little  child,  if  you  love  me  : 

You  are  too  bold  : 
I  must  obey  my  dear  Father  above  me, 

And  do  as  I'm  told. 

Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are  you  roving  ? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  whom  are  you  loving  ? 

All  that  loves  me. 

—  Lord  Houghton. 


THE   NEW   MOON. 

©ear  mother,  how  pretty 
The  moon  looks  to-night  ! 

She  was  never  so  cunning  before  ; 
Her  two  little  horns 
Are  so  sharp  and  so  bright, 

I  hope  she  '11  not  grow  any  more. 

If  I  were  up  there, 
"With  you  and  my  friends, 

I  'd  rock  in  it  nicely,  you  'd  see  ; 
I  'd  sit  in  the  middle 
And  hold  by  both  ends  ; 

Oh,  what  a  bright  cradle  'twould  be  ! 

I  would  call  to  the  stars 
To  keep  out  of  the  way, 

Lest  we  should  rock  over  their  toes  ; 
A.nd  then  I  would  rock 
Till  the  daAvn  of  the  day, 

And  see  where  the  pretty  moon  goes. 


144 


CHILD  LIFE. 


And  there  we  would  stay 

In  the  beautiful  skies, 
And  through  the  bright  clouds  we  would  roam  ; 

We  would  see  the  sun  set, 

And  see  the  sun  rise, 
And  on  the  next  rainbow  come  home. 

—  JJfrs.  Follen. 


PICTURES,   FANCIES,   AND  MEMORIES.  145 


THE    OWL   AND   THE    FUSSY-CAT. 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat ; 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  moon  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"  0  lovely  Pussy  !  0  Pussy,  my  love  ! 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are,  — 
You  are, 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are  ! '' 


146  CHILD  LIFE. 

Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "  You  elegant  fowl  ! 

How  wonderful  sweet  you  sing  ! 
0  let  us  be  married,  —  too  long  we  have  tarried,  — 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring  ?  " 
They  sailed  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 

To  the  land  where  the  Bong-tree  grows, 
And  there  in  a  wood,  a  piggy-wig  stood 

With  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose,  — 
His  nose, 

With  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"  Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 

Your  ring  ? "     Said  the  piggy,  "  I  will." 
So  they  took  it  away,  and  were  married  next  day 

By  the  turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
They  dined  upon  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 
Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon, 
And  hand  in  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  sand 
Tbey  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  — 
The  moon, 
r.  They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

—  Edward  Lear. 


TOPSY-TURVY  WORLD. 

If  the  butterfly  courted  the  bee, 

And  the  owl  the  porcupine  ; 
If  churches  were  built  in  the  sea, 

And  three  times  one  were  nine  ; 
If  the  pony  rode  his  master  ; 

If  the  buttercups  ate  the  cows ; 
If  the  cat  had  the  dire  disaster 

To  be  worried,  sir,  by  the  mouse 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  147 

If  mamma,  sir,  sold  the  baby 

To  a  gipsy  for  half-a-crown  ; 
If  a  gentleman,  sir,  was  a  lady,  — 

The  world  would  be  upside-down  ! 
If  any  or  all  of  these  wonders 

Should  ever  come  about, 
I  should  not  consider  them  blunders, 

For  I  should  be  inside-out !  — "  Lilliput  Levee." 


A    VISIT    FROM   ST.   NICHOLAS. 

'T  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse. 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there. 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads  ; 

And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap  — 

When  out  ou  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprung  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash, 

The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Gave  a  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below  ; 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer. 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name  : 

"  Now,  Dasher  !  now,  Dancer  !  now,  Prancer  and  Vixen  ! 

On  !  Comet,  on  !  Cupid,  on  !  Douder  and  Blitzen  — 


148  CHILD  LIFE. 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all  !  " 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle  mount  to  the  sky 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 

With  a  sleigh  full  of  toys  —  and  St.  Nicholas,  too. 

And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound  : 

He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 

And  he  looked  like  a  pedler  just  opening  his  pack. 

His  eyes,  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples,  how  merry  ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  : 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 

And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 

The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 

And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 

He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly 

That  shook  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump  —  a  right  jolly  old  elf  : 

And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself; 

A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 

And  filled  all  the  stockings  :  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  they  drove  out  of  sight, 

"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night !  " 

—  Clement  G.  Moore. 


PICTURES,   FANCIES,   AND  MEMORIES.  149 


JACK  FROST. 

The  Frost  looked  forth  on  a  still,  clear  night, 
And  whispered,  "  Now,  I  shall  be  out  of  sight  ; 
So,  through  the  valley,  and  over  the  height, 

In  silence  I  '11  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering  train, 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain, 
That  make  such  a  bustle  and  noise  in  vain  ; 

But  I  '11  be  as  busy  as  they  ! " 

So  he  flew  to  the  mountain,  and  powdered  its  crest. 
He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  dressed 
With  diamonds  and  pearls  ;  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivt  ring  lake,  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  glittering  point  of  many  a  spear 
Which  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

He  went  to  the  window  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane  like  a  fairy  crept : 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stepped, 

By  the  morning  light  were  seen 
Most  beautiful  things  !  —  there  were  flowers  and  trees, 
There  were  bevies  of  birds,  and  swarms  of  bees  ; 
There  were  cities  and  temples,  and  towers  ;  and  these 

All  pictured  in  silvery  sheen  ! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair 
He  peeped  in  the  cupboard  :  and  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare. 
"  Now>  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 


150  CHILD  LIFE. 

I  '11  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he, 
"  This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three  ! 
And  the  glass  of  water  they've  left  for  me, 
Shall  'tchick'  to  tell  them  I'm  drinking." 

—  Hannah  F.  Gould. 


KITTY. 

Alas  !  little  Kitty  —  do  give  her  your  pity  ! 
Had  lived  seven  years,  and  was  never  called  pretty  ! 
Her  hair  was  bright  red  and  her  eyes  were  dull  blue, 
And  her  cheeks  were  so  freckled, 
They  looked  like  the  speckled 
Wild-lilies,  which  down  in  the  meadow-lands  grew 
If  her  eyes  had  been  black,  if  she  'd  only  had  curls 
She  had  been,  so  she  thought,  the  most  happy  of  girls. 

Her  cousins  around  her,  they  pouted  and  fretted, 
But  they  were  all  pretty  and  they  were  all  petted  ; 
While  poor  little  Kitty,  though  striving  her  best 
To  do  her  child's  duty, 
Not  sharing  their  beauty, 
Was  always  neglected  and  never  caressed. 
All  in  vain,  so  she  thought,  was  she  loving  and  true, 
While  her  hair  was  bright  red,  and  her  eyes  were  dull  blue. 

But  one  day,  alone  'mid  the  clover-blooms  sitting, 
She  heard  a  strange  sound,  as  of  wings  round  her  flitting  ; 
A  light  not  of  sunbeams,  a  fragrance  more  sweet 
Than  the  wind's,  blowing  over 
The  red-blossomed  clover, 
Made  her  thrill  with  delight  from  her  head  to  her  feet  ; 
And  a  voice,  sweet  and  rare,  whispered  low  in  the  air, 
"  See  that  beautiful,  beautiful  child  sitting  there  ! " 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  151 

Thrice  blessed  little  Kitty  !  She  almost  looked  pretty  ! 
Beloved  by  the  angels,  she  needed  no  pity  ! 
0  juvenile  charmers  !  with  shoulders  of  snow, 
Ruby  lips,  sunny  tresses,  — 
Forms  made  for  caresses,  — 
There's  one  thing,  my  beauties  !  'tis  well  you  should  know  : 
Though  the  world  is  in  love  with  bright  eyes  and  soft  hair, 
It  is  only  good  children  the  angels  call  fair. —  Marian  Douglas. 

WHAT  ? 

What  was  it  that  Charlie  saw,  to-day, 
Down  in  the  pool  where  the  cattle  lie  ? 

A  shoal  of  the  spotted  trout  at  play  ? 
Or  a  sheeny  dragon-fly  ? 

The  fly  and  the  fish  were  there,  indeed  ; 

But  as  for  the  puzzle,  —  guess  again  ! 
It  was  neither  a  shell,  nor  flower,  nor  reed, 

Nor  the  nest  of  a  last  year's  wren. 

Some  willows  droop  to  the  brooklet's  bed  ;  — ■ 
Who  knows  but  a  bee  had  fallen  down  ? 

Or  a  spider,  swung  from  his  broken  thread, 
Was  learning  the  way  to  drown  ? 

You  have  not  read  me  the  riddle  yet. 

Not  even  the  wing  of  a  wounded  bee, 
Nor  the  web  of  a  spider,  torn  and  wet, 

Did  Charlie  this  morning  see. 

Now  answer,  you  who  have  grown  so  wise,  — 
What  could  the  wonderful  sight  have  been, 

But  the  dimpled  face  and  great  blue  eyes 
Of  the  rogue  who  was  looking  in  ? 

- —  Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


152  CHILD  LIFE. 


ROMANCE    OF   THE    SWAN'S   NEST. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 
Mid  the  beeches  of  the  meadow, 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass  : 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow. 

On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by  ; 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow. 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping 

While  she  rocketk  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses, 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech  ; 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done,  - 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses, 

For  her  future  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooseth "I  will  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds  ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile  : 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  red-roan, 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath  ; 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon, 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death  ! 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  153 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  hi  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind  : 

And  the  hoofs,  along  the  sod, 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

"  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face  : 

He  will  say,  '  0  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in  ; 

And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace.' 

"Then,  ay,  then  —  he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him, 

Which  shall  seem  to  understand  — 

Till  I  answer,  '  Rise,  and  go  ! ' 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 

Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand. 

"  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  a  yes  I  must  not  say  — 

Nathless  maiden-brave,  '  Farewell,' 
I  will  utter  and  dissemble  — 

'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.' 

"  Then  he  '11  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong  : 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 


154  GUILD  LIFE. 


"  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain, 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet  — 

'  Lo  !  my  master  sends  this  gage, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  ! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ? ' 

"  And  the  first  time  I  will  send 
A  white  rose-bud  for  a  guerdon,  — 

And  the  second  time  a  glove  : 

But  the  third  time  —  I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer  —  '  Pardon  — 

If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

"  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run  — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee  : 

'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son  ! 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master,  — 

But,  0  Love,  I  love  but  thee  ! ' 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then  ;  and  lead  me  as  a  lover, 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds  ; 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe  — 

And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 


PICTURES,   FANCIES,   AND  MEMORIES.  155 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse 
Winding  by  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

Where  the  ozier  pathway  leads  — 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops  —  and  stops  ! 
Lo  !  the  wild  swan  had  deserted  — 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow  : 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 

Sooth,  I  know  not  !  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him  ■ —  never, 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


A    MASQUERADE. 

A.  little  old  woman  before  me 
Went  slowly  down  the  street ; 

Walking  as  if  aweary 

Were  her  feeble,  tottering  feet. 

From  under  her  old  poke  bonnet 

I  caught  a  gleam  of  snow, 
And  her  waving  cap  string  floated,        , 

Like  a  pennon,  to  and  fro. 

In  the  folds  of  her  rusty  mantle 
Sudden  her  footstep  caught, 

And  I  sprang  to  keep  her  from  falling, 
With  a  touch  as  quick  as  thought. 


a 


156  CHILD  LIFE. 

When,  under  the  old  poke  bonnet, 

I  saw  a  winsome  face, 
Framed  in  with  the  flaxen  ringlets 

Of  my  wee  daughter  Grace. 

Mantle  and  cap  together 

Dropped  off  at  my  very  feet  ; 

And  there  stood  the  little  fairy, 
Beautiful,  blushing,  sweet  ! 

Will  it  be  like  this,  I  wonder, 
When  at  last  we  come  to  stand 

On  the  golden,  ringing  pavement 
Of  the  blessed,  blessed  land  ? 

Losing  the  rusty  garments 

We  wore  in  the  years  of  Time, 

Will  our  better  selves  spring  backward, 
Serene  in  a  youth  sublime  ? 

Instead  of  the  shapes  that  hid  us, 

And  made  us  old  and  gray, 
Shall  we  get  our  child-hearts  back  again, 
With  a  brightness  that  will  stay  ? 

I  thought — but  my  little  daughter 
Slipped  her  dimpled  hand  in  mine  ; 

"  I  was  only  playing,"  she  whispered, 
"  That  I  was  ninety-nine." 


LITTLE    SORROW. 

Among  the  thistles  on  the  hill, 
In  tears,  sat  Little  Sorrow  ; 

"  I  see  a  black  cloud  in  the  west, 
'T  will  brino;  a  storm  to-morrow. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES. 

And  when  it  storms,  where  shall  I  be  1 

And  what  will  keep  the  rain  from  me  ? 

Woe 's  me  !  "  said  Little  Sorrow. 


157 


"  But  now  the  air  is  soft  and  sweet, 
The  sunshine  bright,"  said  Pleasure  ; 

"  Here  is  my  pipe,  —  if  you  will  dance, 
I  '11  wake  my  merriest  measure  ; 

Or,  if  you  chose,  we'll  sit  beneath 

The  red  rose  tree,  and  twine  a  wreath  ; 
Come,  come  with  me  !  "  said  Pleasure. 


"  0,  I  want  neither  dance  nor  flowers,  - 
They  're  not  for  me,"  said  Sorrow, 

"  When  that  black  cloud  is  in  the  west, 
And  it  will  storm  to-morrow  ! 

And  if  it  storm,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

I  have  no  heart  to  play  with  you,  — ■ 
Go  !  go  ! "  said  Little  Sorrow. 


158 


CHILD  LIFE. 

But  lo  !    when  came  the  morrow's  morn, 

The  clouds  were  all  blown  over  ; 
The  lark  sprang  singing  from  his  nest 

Among  the  dewy  clover  ; 
And  Pleasure  called,  "  Come  out  and  dance  ! 
To-day  you  mourn  no  evil  chance  ; 

The  clouds  have  all  blown  over  1  " 

"  And  if  they  have,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Poor  comfort  that  !  "  said  Sorrow  ; 
"  For  if  to-day  we  miss  the  storm, 

'T  will  surely  come  to-morrow,  — 
And  be  the  fiercer  for  delay  ! 
I  am  too  sore  at  heart  to  play  ; 

Woe 's  me  !  "  said  Little  Sorrow. 

—  Marian  Douglas. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  159 


A   BIRD   IN   THE    HAND  IS  WORTH  TWO   IN  THE 
BUSH." 

In  the  hand  —  fluttering  fearfully  — 

Lonely  and  helpless,  —  poor  little  thing  ! 

In  the  bush  —  peeping  out  cheerfully, 
Two  together,  gaily  they  sing  ! 

Why  is  it  best  to  have  one  in  the  hand  ? 

Father,  tell  me,  —  I  don't  understand. 

"  Best  it  is  because  you  have  hold  of  it  ; 

Child,  it  is  only  a  figure  of  speech  ; 
Sunset  shines,  you  look  at  the  gold  of  it, 

Knowing  well  it  is  out  of  your  reach  ; 
But  the  sixpence  your  godmother  gave, 
Yours  it  is,  to  spend  or  to  save." 

Ah,  that  sixpence  !  already  I  've  done  with  it  ; 

Never  a  penny  with  me  will  stay. 
If  I  could  buy  but  an  inch  of  the  sun  with  it, 

I  might  look  at  it  every  day. 
Father,  the  birds  shall  stay  in  their  nest  ! 
Things  that  Ave  never  can  have  are  the  best. 

—  Poems  written  for  a  Child. 


THE   SHADOWS. 

My  little  boy,  with  pale,  round  cheeks, 
And  large,  brown,  dreamy  eyes, 

Not  often,  little  wisehead,  speaks, 
But  yet  will  make  replies. 


160 


CHILD  LIFE. 


His  sister,  always  glad  to  show 

Her  knowledge,  for  its  praise, 
Said  yesterday  :  "  God  's  here,  you  know  ; 

He  's  everywhere,  always. 

"  He  's  in  this  room."     His  large,  brown  eyes 
Went  wandering  round  for  God  ; 

In  vain  he  looks,  in  vain  he  tries, 
His  wits  are  all  abroad. 


"  He  is  not  here,  mamma  ?     No,  no  ; 

I  do  not  see  Him  at  all, 
He's  not  the  shadows,  is  He  ? "     So 

His  doubtful  accents  fall. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    A  XI)  MEMORIES.  161 

Fall  on  my  heart,  like  precious  seed, 

Grow  up  to  flowers  of  love  ; 
For  as  my  child,  in  love  and  need, 

Am  I  to  Him  above. 

How  oft  before  the  vapors  break, 

And  day  begins  to  be, 
In  our  dun-lighted  rooms  we  take 

The  shadows,  Lord,  for  Thee  :  — 

While  every  shadow  lying  there. 

Slow  remnant  of  the  night, 
Is  but  an  aching,  longing  prayer, 

For  Thee,  0  Lord,  the  light. 

—  George  Macdonald. 


A    CHILD'S   THOUGHT    OF    GOD. 

Thev  say  that  God  lives  very  high  ! 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 

You  cannot  see  our  God.     And  why  ? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines, 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold, 
Though  from  Him  all  that 's  glory  shines. 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  His  face  — 

Like  secrets  kept,  for  love   untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills,  through  all  things  made, 

Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place  : 


162  CHILD   LIFE 


As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 
On  my  shut  lids,  her  kisses'  pressure, 
Half-waking-  me  at  night  ;  and  said 
"  Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear  guesser  ? '" 
—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


LARVAE. 

My  little  maiden  of  four  years  old,  — 

No  myth,  but  a  genuine  child  is  she, 
With  her  bronze-brown  eyes,  and  her  curls  of  gold,  — - 

Came,  quite  in  disgust,  one  day,  to  me. 

Rubbing  her  shoulder  with  rosy  palm, 

(As  the  loathsome  touch  seemed  yet  to  thrill  her, ) 
She  cried,  —  "  Oh,  mother,  I  found  on  my  arm 

A  horrible,  crawling  caterpillar  !  " 

And  with  mischievous  smile  she  could  scarcely  smother, 
Yet  a  look,  in  its  daring,  half-awed  and  shy, 

She  added,  "While  they  were  about  it  mother, 
I  wish  they  'd  just  finished  the  butterfly  !  " 

They  were  words  to  the  thoughts  of  the  soul  that  tunw 
From  the  coarser  form  of  a  partial  growth, 

Reproaching  the  Infinite  Patience  that  yearns 
With  an  unknown  glory  to  crown  them  both  ! 


PICTURES.    FANCIES    AND   MEMORIES.  163 

All,  look  thou  largely,  with  lenient  eyes, 
On  whatso  beside  thee  may  creep  and  cling, 

For  the  possible  beauty  that  underlies 
The  passing  phase  of  the  meanest  thing  ! 

What  if  God's  great  angels,  whose  waiting  love 

Beholdeth  our  pitiful  life  below, 
From  the  holy  height  of  their  heaven  above, 

Could  n't  bear  with  the  worm  till  the  wings  should  grow  '( 

-Mrs.  A.  T).  T.  Whitney. 


k;i  child  live. 

LITTLE  CHRISTEL. 

"  Be  ye  doers  oi  the  Word,  and  not  hearers  only." 


Going  home  from  the  house  of  (rod. 

The  flower  at  her  foot,  and  the  sun  overhead, 
Little  Christel  so  thoughtfully  trod, 

Pondering  what  the  preacher  had  said. 

"  Even  the  youngest,  humblest  child 
Something-  may  do  to  please  the  Lord." 

"Now  what,"  thought  she,  and  half-sadly  smiled. 
"Can  I.  so  little  and  poor,  afford  ?" 

"  Never,  never  a  day  should  pass 

Without  some  kindness  kindly  shown." 

Little  Christel  looked  down  at  the  grass 
Rising  like  incense  before  the  throne 

"  Well,  a  day  is  before  me  now  ; 

Yet  what,"  thought  she,  "  can  I  do  if  I  try  ? 
If  an  angel  of  God  should  show  me  how, 

But  silly  am  T,  — and  the  hours  they  fly." 

Then  ;i  lark  sprang  singing  up  from  the  sod. 
And  Christel  thought,  as  he  rose  to  the  blue, 

"  Perhaps  he  will  carry  my  prayer  to  God  : 

But  who  would  have  thought  the  little  lark  knew  '( 

II. 

Now  she  entered  the  village  street, 

With  book  in  hand  aud  face  demure  ; 
And  soon  she  came,  with  sober  feet, 

To  a  crying  babe  :it  a  cottage  door. 


PICTURES.    FANCIES,    AND   MEMORIES.  165 

The  child  had  a  windmill  that  would  not  move  : 
It  puffed  with  its  round,  red  cheeks  in  vain  ; 

One  sail  stuck  fast  in  a  puzzling  groove, 
And  baby's  breath  could  not  stir  it  again. 

Poor  baby  beat  the  sail,  and  cried, 

While  no  one  came  from  the  cottage  door  ;    . 

But  little  Christel  knelt  down  by  its  side, 
And  set  the  windmill  going  once  more. 

Then  babe  was  pleased,  and  the  little  girl 

Was  glad  when  she  heard  it  laugh  and  crow  ; 

Thinking,  "  Happy  windmill,  that  has  but  to  whirl, 
To  please  the  pretty  young  creature  so  ! " 

in. 

No  thought  of  herself  was  in  her  head, 
As  she  passed  out  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

And  came  to  a  rose-tree  tall  and  red, 
Drooping  and  faint  with  the  summer  heat. 

She  ran  to  a  brook  that  was  flowing  by  ; 

She  made  of  her  two  hands  a  nice  round  cup, 
And  washed  the  roots  of  the  rose-tree  high, 

Till  it  lifted  its  languid  blossoms  up. 

"  0  happy  brook  !  "  thought  little  Christel, 

"  You  have  done  some  good  this  summer's  day  : 

You  have  made  the  flower  look  fresh  and  well  !  " 
Then  she  rose,  and  went  on  her  way. 

IY. 

But  she  saw,  as  she  walked  by  the  side  of  the  brook. 
Some  great  rough  stones  that  troubled  its  course  : 

And  the  gurgling  water  seemed  to  say,  "  Look  ! 
I  struggle,  and  tumble,  and  murmur  lioarse  ! 


166  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  How  these  stones  obstruct  my  road  ! 

How  I  wish  they  were  off  and  gone  ! 
Then  I  could  flow  as  once  I  flowed, 

Singing  in  silvery  undertone." 

Then  little  Christel,  as  light  as  a  bird, 

Put  off  the  shoes  from  her  young  white  feet  ; 

She  moves  two  stones,  she  comes  to  a  third, 

The  brook  already  sings,  "  Thanks  to  you,  sweet  !  " 

Oh  !  then  she  hears  the  lark  in  the  skies, 
And  thinks,  "  What  is  it  to  God  he  says?'' 

And  she  stumbles  and  falls,  and  cannot  rise, 
For  the  water  stifles  her  downward  face. 

The  little  brook  flows  on  as  before, 

The  little  lark  sings  with  as  sweet  a  sound  ; 

The  little  babe  crows  at  the  cottage  door, 

And  the  red  rose  blooms,  —  but  Christel  lies  drowned. 

V. 

Come  in  softly  !   this  is  the  room  : 

Is  not  that  an  innocent  face  ? 
Yes,  those  flowers  give  a  faint  perfume  : 

Think,  child  of  heaven,  and  the  Lord,  —  His  grace 

Three  at  the  right,  and  three  at  the  left. 

Two  at  the  feet,  and  two  at  the  head, 
The  tapers  burn.     The  friends  bereft 

Have  cried  till  their  eyes  are  swollen  and  red. 

Who  would  have  thought  it  when  little  Christel 

Pondered  on  what  the  preacher  had  told  ? 
But  the  good,  wise  God  does  all  things  well, 
And  the  fair  young  creature  lies  dead  and  cold. 


PICTURES.    FANCIES,    AND   MEMORIES.  167 

VI. 

Then  a  little  stream  crept  into  the  place, 

And  rippled  up  to  the  coffin's  side, 
And  touched  the  corpse  on  its  pale,  round  face, 

And  kissed  the  eyes  till  they  trembled  wide  ; 

Saying,  "  I  am  a  river  of  joy  from  heaven  : 

You  helped  the  brook,  and  I  help  you  : 
I  sprinkle  your  brow  with  life  drops  seven, 

T  bathe  your  eyes  with  healing  dew." 

Then  a  rose-branch  in  through  the  window  came, 

And  colored  her  cheeks  and  lips  with  red  : 
•■  I  remember,  and  heaven  does  the  same," 

Was  all  that  the  faithful  rose-branch  said. 

Then  a  bright,  small  form  to  her  cold  neck  clung, 

It  breathed  on  her  till  her  breast  did  fill  ; 
Saying,  "  I  am  a  cherub,  fond  aud  youug, 

And  I  saw  who  breathed  on  the  baby's  mill.'' 

Then  little  Christel  sat  up  and  smiled, 

And  said,  "Who  put  these  flowers  in  my  hand  ?  " 

And  rubbed  her  eyes,  poor  innocent  child, 
Not  being  able  to  understand. 

VII. 

But  soon  she  heard  the  big  bell  of  the  church 

Give  the  hour,  which  made  her  say, 
"Oh !   I  have  slept  and  dreamed  in  the  porch  : 

It  is  a  very  drowsy  day." 

—  '•  Lilliput  Levee." 


168  CHILD    LIFE. 


I  REMEMBER,    I   REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born  ; 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups  — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light  ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 
My  spirits  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky. 


FlUTURka,    FAN  VIES,    AND   ME  MORI  lis.  169 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

—  Thomas  Hood. 


OUR  HOMESTEAD. 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls, 

From  the  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple  boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruitage  on  its  roof : 


170  VII1LD    LIFE. 

And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew, 

That  when  awake  J  've  lain, 
In  the  lonesome  nights  I  've  heard  the  limbs, 
As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh,  those  orchard  trees  ! 

I  've  seen  ray  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window  sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad. 
And  the  damask  rose  by  the  garden  fence 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Far  brought,  and  rich,  and  rare, 
To  other  eyes  more  beautiful 

But  not  to  me  so  fair  ; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh,  those  roses  bright  ! 

I  have  twined  them  with  my  sister's  locks, 
That  are  laid  in  the  dust  from  sight  ! 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly  : 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  that  in  my  little  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep, 

Which  my  father's  hand  set  up  : 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh,  that  deep  old  well  ! 

I  remember  yet  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet  ; 

There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 
And  her  smile  was  always  sweet  ; 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  171 

And  there  I  've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven  hair  — 
That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh,  that  broad  hearth's  light 

And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile. 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night. 

—  Phxebe  Car  a. 


THE  AFTERNOON  NAP. 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair. 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away  : 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes. 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head. 

With  a  tear  on  his  wriukled  face  : 
He  thought  how  often,  her  mother,  dead  — 

Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place  ; 
And  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye  ; 
■•  Don't  smoke  !  "  said  the  child,  "  how  it  makes  you  cry 

The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor, 
Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal  : 

The  busy  old  wife  by  the  open  door, 
Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel  ; 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree, 

Hod  plodded  along  to  almost  three  ; 


172  GUILD   lAbli. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 

While  close  to  his  heaving  breast, 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 

Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed  ; 
His  head  bent  down  on  her  soft  hair,  lay  ;  — 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer  day. 

—  Charles  G.  Eaxfrmai 


SATURDAY    AFTERNOON. 

1  f.ovk  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not,  old, 

And  my  locks  arc  not  yet  gray  ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

1  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old  — 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true  —  it  is  very  true  — 

I  am  old,  and  J  "  bide  my  time," 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on  !   Flay  on  !    I  am  with  you  there. 
In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring  : 

I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 


PICTURES.    FANCIES.    AND  MEMORIES.  173 

I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  T  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing-  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  — 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 

—  N.  l\  Willis. 


Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 
A  ragged  beggar  sunning  : 

Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow 
And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 


174  CHILD   LIFE. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official  ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial  ; 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  iis  wall  -. 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 
Shone  over  it  at  setting  ; 

Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 
And  low  eaves'  icy  frettii'g. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled  ; 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressiug, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessino;. 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND   MEMORIES. 


175 


176  CHILD  LIFE. 

'  I  'm  sorry  that  1  spelt  the  word  : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, — 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  mail 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl  !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 

—  John  (1    Whittier, 


JEAiME   MORRISON. 

1  'ye  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way, 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saul,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  <>'  lang  syne. 


PICTURES,   FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES. 


177 


'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weeL 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part  ; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 


-    ■ 


178  CHILD  LIFE. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said, 

We  cleeked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 
O  mornin'  life  !     0  mornin'  luve  ! 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

0,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 


•   • 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  179 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies  ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abuve  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  —  unsung  ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts, 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  lang  syne  ? 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

I  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 


180  CHILD  LIFE. 

O,  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygane  days  and  me  !    • —  William  Motherwell 


THE   LITTLE   BROTHER. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  Avail, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  the  best  of  all  ; 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below  ; 
Not  for   the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest  ; 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  ; 
In  the  lap  of  that  olden  forest 

T\e  lieth  in  peace  asleep  ; 


PICTURES,    FANCIES,    AND  MEMORIES.  181 

Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And  one  of  the  autumn  eves 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  ; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all.  —  Alice  Gary. 


THE    GRATES    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side  ; 

They  filled  one  home  with  glee  ; 
Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 

By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight  : 
Where  are  those  sleepers  now  ? 


182  CHILD   LIFE. 

One,  midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid  : 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  lone  blue  sea  hath  one  ; 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapped  the  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain 

And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 

Its  leaves  by  soft  winds  fanned  ; 
She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers — 

The  last  of  that  fair  band. 

And  parted  thus,  they  rest  who  played 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent  knee. 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth  ; 

Alas  for  love  !  if  thou  wert  all, 

A  nd  naught  beyond,  0  earth  !      —  Mrs.  Hemans. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


LAUDERBACH  SC 


THE    CHILDREN'S    HOUR. 


Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


186  CHILD  LIFE. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall  ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall  ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  von  all  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  187 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeons 

In  the  round  tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

—  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


FATHER   IS    COMING. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  six, 

The  father's  work  is  done  ; 
Sweep  up  the  hearth  and  mend  the  fire, 

And  put  the  kettle  on  ! 
The  wild  night-wind  is  blowing  cold, 
'T  is  dreary  crossing  o'er  the  wold. 

He 's  crossing  o'er  the  wold  apace  ; 

He's  stronger  than  the  storm  ; 
He  does  not  feel  the  cold,  not  he, 

His  heart  it  is  too  warm  : 
For  father's  heart  is  stout  and  true 
As  ever  human  bosom  knew. 

He  makes  all  toil,  all  hardship  light  ; 

Would  all  men  were  the  same, 
So  ready  to  be  pleased,  so  kind, 

So  very  slow  to  blame  ! 
Folks  need  not  be  unkind,  austere, 
For  love  hath  readier  will  than  fear  ! 


CHILD  LIFE. 

And  we  '11  do  all  that  father  likes, 

His  wishes  are  so  few  ! 
Would  they  were  more  !  that  every  hour 

Some  wish  of  his  I  knew  ! 
I  'm  sure  it  makes  a  happy  day, 
When  I  can  please  him  any  way. 

I  know  he  's  coming,  by  this  sign, 

The  baby  's  almost  wild  ; 
See  how  he  laughs,  and  crows,  and  stares  ;  — 

Heaven  bless  the  merry  child  ! 
He 's  father's  self  in  face  and  limb, 
And  father's  heart  is  strong  in  him. 

Hark  !  hark  !  I  hear  his  footsteps  now  — 

He 's  through  the  garden  gate  ; 
Run,  little  Bess,  and  ope  the  door, 

And  do  not  let  him  wait  ! 
Shout,  baby,  shout,  and  clap  thy  hands  ! 
For  father  on  the  threshold  stands. 

—  Mary  Howitt. 


A    LITTLE    GOOSE. 

The  chill  November  day  was  done, 

The  working  world  home  faring  ; 
The  wind  came  roaring  through  the  streets, 

And  set  the  gaslights  flaring  ; 
And  hopelessly  and  aimlessly, 

The  scared  old  leaves  were  flying,  — 
When,  mingled  with  the  soughing  wind, 

I  heard  a  small  voice  crying. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  189 

And,  shivering  on  the  corner,  stood 

A  child  of  four,  or  over  ; 
No  cloak  or  hat  her  small,  soft  arms 

And  wind-blown  curls  to  cover  ; 
Her  dimpled  face  was  stained  with  tears  ; 

Her  round  blue  eyes  ran  over  ; 
She  cherished  in  her  wee,  cold  hand 

A  bunch  of  faded  clover. 

And,  one  hand  round  her  treasure,  while 

She  slipped  in  mine  the  other, 
Half-scared,  half-confidential,  said, 

"  Oh  !  please,  I  want  my  mother." 
"  Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  pet. 

Don't  cry  :  I  '11  take  you  to  it." 
Sobbing,  she  answered,  "  I  forget  : 

The  organ  made  me  do  it. 

"  He  came  and  played  at  Miller's  step,  — 

The  monkey  took  the  money  ; 
I  followed  down  the  street  because 

That  monkey  was  so  funny. 
I  've  walked  about  a  hundred  hours 

From  one  street  to  another  ; 
The  monkey 's  gone  ;  I've  spoilt  my  flowers  ;  — 

Oh  !  please  I  want  my  mother." 

"  But  what 's  your  mother's  name  ?  and  what 

The  street  ?     Now  think  a  minute." 
"  My  mother's  name  is  Mother  Dear  ; 

The  street  —  I  can't  begin  it." 
"  But  what  is  strange  about  the  house, 

Or  new,  —  not  like  the  others  ?  " 
"  I  guess  you  mean  my  trundle-bed,  — 

Mine  and  my  little  brother's. 


190  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  Oh  dear  !  I  ought  to  be  at  home 

To  help  him  say  his  prayers,  — 
He 's  such  a  baby  he  forgets  ; 

And  we  are  both  such  players  ; 
And  there  's  a  bar  between  to  keep 

From  pitching  on  each  other, 
For  Harry  rolls  when  he  's  asleep  : 

Oh  dear  !  I  want  my  mother." 

The  sky  grew  stormy  ;  people  passed 

All  muffled,  homeward  faring. 
"  You  '11  have  to  spend  the  night  with  me," 

I  said  at  last,  despairing. 
I  tied  a  kerchief  round  her  neck  : 

"  What  ribbon  's  this,  my  blossom  ?  " 
"  Why,  don't  you  know  !  "  she,  smiling,  said, 

And  drew  it  from  her  bosom. 

A  card  with  number,  street,  and  name  ! 

My  eyes  astonished  met  it  ; 
"  For,"  said  the  little  one,  "  you  see 

I  might  some  time  forget  it, 
And  so  I  wear  a  little  thing 

That  tells  you  all  about  it  ; 
For  mother  says  she  's  very  sure, 

I  should  get  lost  without  it." 

—  Eliza  Sproat  Turner. 


THE   JOHNNY-CAKE. 

Little  Sarah  she  stood  by  her  grandmother's  bed, 
"  And  what  shall  I  get  for  your  breakfast  ?"  she  said. 
"  You  shall  get  me  a  johnny-cake  :  quickly  go  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  191 

So  Sarah  she  went  to  the  closet  to  see 

If  yet  any  meal  in  the  barrel  might  be. 

The  barrel  had  long  time  been  empty  as  wind  ; 

Not  a  speck  of  the  bright  yellow  meal  could  she  find. 

But  grandmother's  johnny-cake  —  still  she  must  make  it, 

In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it. 

She  ran  to  the  shop  ;  but  the  shopkeeper  said, 
"I  have  none  —  you  must  go  to  the  miller,  fair  maid  ; 
For  he  has  a  mill,  and  he'll  put  the  corn  in  it, 
And  grind  you  some  nice  yellow  meal  in  a  minute  ; 
But  run,  or  the  johnny-cake,  how  will  you  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it  ?  " 

Then  Sarah  she  ran  every  step  of  the  way, 
But  the  miller  said,  "  No,  I  have  no  meal  to-day  ; 
Run,  quick,  to  the  cornfield,  just  over  the  hill, 
And  if  any  be  there,  you  may  fetch  it  to  mill. 
Run,  run,  or  the  johnny-cake,  how  will  you  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it  ?  " 

She  ran  to  the  cornfield  —  the  corn  had  not  grown, 
Though  the  sun  in  the  blue  sky  all  pleasantly  shone. 
"  Pretty  sun,"  cried  the  maiden,  "  please  make  the  corn  grow." 
"  Pretty  maid,"  the  sun  answered,  "  I  cannot  do  so." 
"Then  grandmother's  johnny-cake,  how  shall  I  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it  ?  " 

Then  Sarah  looked  round,  and  she  saw  what  was  wanted  ; 
The  corn  "could  not  grow,  for  no  corn  had  been  planted. 
She  asked  of  the  farmer  to  sow  her  some  grain, 
But  the  farmer  he  laughed  till  his  sides  ached  again. 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  for  the  johnny-cake,  — how  can  you  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it  ?  " 


192  CHILD  LIFE. 

The  farmer  he  laughed,  and  he  laughed  out  aloud,  — 
"  And  how  can  I  plant  till  the  earth  has  been  ploughed  ? 
Run,  run  to  the  ploughman,  and  bring  him  with  speed  ; 
He  '11  plough  up  the  ground,  and  I  '11  fill  it  with  seed." 
Away,  then,  ran  Sarah,  still  hoping  to  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it. 

The  ploughman  he  ploughed,  and  the  grain  it  was  sown. 
And  the  sun  shed  his  rays  till  the  corn  was  all  grown. 
It  was  ground  at  the  mill,  and  again  in  her  bed 
These  words  to  poor  Sarah  the  grandmother  said  : 
"  You  shall  get  me  a  johnny-cake  —  quickly  go  make  it, 
In  one  minute  mix,  and  in  two  minutes  bake  it." 


THANKSGIVING-DAY. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood, 
To  grandfather's  house  we  go  ; 

The  horse  knows  the  way 

To  carry  the  sleigh 
Through  the  white  and  drifted  snow. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood  - 
Oh,  how  the  wind  does  blow  ! 

It  stings  the  toes 

And  bites  the  nose, 
As  over  the  ground  we  go. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood, 
To  have  a  first-rate  play. 
Hear  the  bells  ring, 
"  Ting-a-ling-ding  !  " 
Hurrah  for  Thankseivincr-Dav  ! 


AllbUELLANEOUS. 


L93 


Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood 
Trot  fast,  my  dapple-gray  ! 
Spring  over  the  ground, 
Like  a  hunting-hound  ! 
For  this  is  Thanksgiving-Day. 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood, 

And  straight  through  the  barn-yard  gate. 
We  seem  to  go 
Extremely  slow,  — 
It  is  so  hard  to  wait  ! 

Over  the  river  and  through  the  wood  — 
Now  grandmother's  cap  I  spy  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  fun  ! 

Is  the  pudding  done  ? 
Hurrah  for  the  pumpkin-pie  ! 


L.  Maria  Child. 


194 


CHILD    LIFE. 


THE   CLOCKING   HEN. 

"  Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me, 

My  little  wife,  to-day  ? 
There 's  barley  in  the  barley-field, 

And  hay-seed  in  the  hay." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  clocking  hen  ; 

"  ]  've  something  else  to  do  ; 
I  'm  busy  sitting  on  my  eggs, 

I  cannot  walk  with  you." 

"  Clock,  clock,  clock,  clock," 

Said  the  clocking  hen  ; 
"  My  little  chicks  will  soon  be  hatched, 

I  '11  think  about  it  then." 

The  clocking  hen  sat  on  her  nest. 

She  made  it  in  the  hay  ; 
And  warm  and  snug  beneath  her  breast, 

A  dozen  white  eggs  lay. 

Crack,  crack,  went  all  the  eggs, 
Out  dropt  the  chickens  small  ! 

"  Clock,"  said  the  clocking  hen. 
"  Now  I  have  you  all." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  195 

"  Come  along  my  little  chicks, 

I  '11  take  a  walk  with  you." 
"  Hollo  !  "  said  the  barn-door  cock, 

"  Cock-a-doodle-do  !  " 

—  Aunt  Effie's  Bhymes. 


THE  CROW'S  CHILDREN. 

A  huntsman,  bearing  his  gun  afield, 

Went  whistling  merrily  ; 
When  he  heard  the  blackest  of  black  crows 

Call  out  from  a  withered  tree  :  — 

"  You  are  going  to  kill  the  thievish  birds, 

And  I  would  if  I  were  you  ; 
But  you  mustn't  touch  my  family, 

Whatever  else  you  do  ! " 

"  I  'm  only  going  to  kill  the  birds 

That  are  eating  up  my  crop  ; 
And  if  your  young  ones  do  such  things, 

Be  sure  they  '11  have  to  stop." 

"  0,"  said  the  crow,  "  my  children 

Are  the  best  ones  ever  born  ; 
There  is  n't  one  among  them  all 

Would  steal  a  grain  of  corn." 


196  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  which  ones  they  are  ? 

Do  they  resemble  you  ?  " 
"  O  no,"  said  the  crow,  "  they're  the  prettiest  birds 

And  the  whitest  that  ever  flew  ! " 

So  off  went  the  sportsman,  whistling, 

And  off,  too,  went  his  gun  ; 
And  its  startling  echoes  never  ceased 

Again  till  the  day  was  done. 

And  the  old  crow  sat  untroubled, 

Cawing  away  in  her  nook  ; 
For  she  said,  "  He'll  never  kill  my  birds, 

Since  I  told  him  how  they  look. 

"  Now  there's  the  hawk,  my  neighbor, 
She'll  see  what  she  will  see,  soon  ; 

And  that  saucy,  whistling  blackbird 
May  have  to  change  his  tune  ! " 

When,  lo  !  she  saw  the  hunter, 

Taking  his  homeward  track, 
With  a  string  of  crows  as  long  as  his  gun. 

Hanging  down  his  back. 

"  Alack,  alack  !  "  said  the  mother, 
"  What  in  the  world  have  you  done  ? 

You  promised  to  spare  my  pretty  birds, 
And  you've  killed  them  every  one.'1 

"  Your  birds  !  "  said  the  puzzled  hunter  ; 

"  Why,  I  found  them  in  my  corn  ; 
And  besides,  they  are  black  and  ugly 

As  any  that  ever  were  born  !  " 


MISCELLANEOUS.  191 


"  Get  out  of  in)r  sight,  you  stupid  ! " 
Said  the  angriest  of  crows  ; 

"  How  good  and  fair  the  children  are, 
There 's  none  but  a  parent  knows  ! " 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  hunter, 
"  But  not  as  you  do,  quite  ; 

It  takes  a  mother  to  be  so  blind 
She  can't  tell  black  from  white  ! " 


Phoebe  Car;/. 


DAME  DUCK'S  FIRST  LECTURE  ON  EDUCATION. 

Old  Mother  Duck  has  hatched  a  brood 

Of  ducklings  small  and  callow  ; 
Their  little  wings  are  short  ;  their  down 

Is  mottled  gray  and  yellow. 

Close  by  the  margin  of  the  brook 

The  old  duck  made  her  nest, 
Of  straw,  and  leaves,  and  withered  grass, 

And  down  from  her  own  breast. 

And  there  she  sat  for  four  long  weeks, 

In  rainy  days  and  fine, 
Until  the  ducklings  all  came  out  — 

Four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine. 

One  peeped  out  from  beneath  her  wing, 

One  scrambled  on  her  back  ; 
"That's  very  rude,"  said  old  Dame  Duck  ; 

"  Get  off !  quack,  quack,  quack,  quack  !  " 


198 


CHILD   LIFE. 


m-^in 


"  Tis  close/'  said  Dame  Duck,  shoving  out 

The  egg-shells  with  her  bill  ; 
"  Besides,  it  never  suits  young  ducks 

To  keep  them  sitting  still." 

So  rising  from  her  nest,  she  said, 

"  Now  children,  look  at  me  ; 
A  well-bred  duck  should  waddle  so, 

From  side  to  side  —  d'ye  see  ?  " 


Yes,"  said  the  little  ones  ;  and  then 

She  went  on  to  explain  : 
A  well-bred  duck  turns  in  its  toes 

As  I  do  —  try  again." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  199 

"Yes,"  said  the  ducklings,  waddling  on  ; 

"  That 's  better,"  said  their  mother  ; 
"  But  well-bred  ducks  walk  in  a  row, 

Straight  —  one  behind  another." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  ducks  again, 

All  waddling  in  a  row  : 
"  Now  to  the  pond,"  said  old  Dame  Duck  — 

Splash,  splash,  and  in  they  go. 

"  Let  me  swim  first,"  said  old  Dame  Duck, 

"  To  this  side  —  now  to  that  ; 
There,  snap  at  those  great  brown-winged  flies, 

They  make  young  ducklings  fat. 

"Now  when  you  reach  the  poultry-yard, 

The  hen-wife,  Molly  Head, 
Will  feed  you  with  the  other  fowls, 

On  bran  and  mashed-up  bread  ; 

"  The  hens  will  peck  and  fight,  but  mind, 

I  hope  that  all  of  you 
Will  gobble  up  the  food  as  fast 

As  well-bred  ducks  should  do. 

"  You  'd  better  get  into  the  dish, 

Unless  it  is  too  small  ; 
In  that  case,  I  should  use  my  foot, 

And  overturn  it  all." 

The  ducklings  did  as  they  were  bid, 

And  found  the  plan  so  good, 
That  from  that  day,  the  other  fowls 

Grot  hardly  any  food. 

—  Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


200 


CHILD  LIFE. 


THE  MOTHERLESS  TURKEYS. 

The  White  Turkey  was  dead  !     The  White  Turkey  was  dead  ! 

How  the  news  through  the  barn-yard  went  flying  ! 

Of  a  mother  bereft,  four  small  turkeys  were  left, 

And  their  case  for  assistance  was  crying. 

E  'en  the  Peacock  respectfully  folded  his  tail, 

As  a  suitable  symbol  of  sorrow, 

And  his  plainer  wife  said,  "  Now  the  old  bird  is  dead. 

Who  will  tend  her  poor  chicks  on  the  morrow  ? 

And  when  evening  around  them  comes  dreary  and  chill 

Who  above  them  will  watchfully  hover  ?  " 

"  Two,  each  night,  /will  tuck  'neath  my  wings,"  said  the  Duck, 

Though  I  've  eight  of  my  own  T  must  cover 


MISCELLANEOUS.  201 

"  I  have  so  much  to  do  !     For  the  bugs  and  the  worms, 
In  the  garden,  't  is  tiresome  pickin'  ; 
I  have  nothing  to  spare,  —  for  my  own  I  must  care," 
Said  the  Hen  with  one  chicken. 

"  How  I  wish,"  said  the  Goose,  "  I  could  be  of  some  use, 

For  my  heart  is  with  love  over-brimming  ; 

The  next  morning  that 's  fine,  they  shall  go  with  my  nine 

Little,  yellow-backed  goslings,  out  swimming  !  " 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  the  old  Dorking  put  in, 

"  And  for  help  they  may  call  upon  me  too, 

Though  I've  ten  of  my  own  that  are  only  half  grown, 

And  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  see  to. 

But  those  poor  little  things,  they  are  all  heads  and  wings, 

And  their  bones  through  their  feathers  are  stickin'  !  " 

"  Very  hard  it  may  be,  but,  0,  don't  come  to  me  !  " 

Said  the  Hen  with  one  chicken. 

"  Half  my  care,  I  suppose,  there  is  nobody  knows, — 

I  'm  the  most  overburdened  of  mothers  ! 

They  must  learn,  little  elves  !  how  to  scratch  for  themselves, 

And  not  seek  to  depend  upon  others." 

She  went  by  with  a  cluck,  and  the  Goose  to  the  Duck 

Exclaimed,  in  surprise,  "  Well,  I  never  !  " 

Said  the  Duck,  "I  declare,  those  who  have  the  least  care, 

You  will  find,  are  complaining  forever  ! 

And  when  all  things  appear  to  look  threatening  and  drear, 

And  when  troubles  your  pathway  are  thick  in. 

For  aid  in  your  woe,  0,  beware  how  you  go 

To  a  Hen  with  one  chicken  ! " 

—  Marian  Douglas. 


202  CHILD   LIFE. 


THE  WATER-MILL. 


"  Any  grist  for  the  mill  ?" 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
Flap,  flap,  flap,  flap, 

While  the  water  flows. 
Round  about  and  round  about, 
•     The  heavy  mill-stones  grind, 
And  the  dust  flies  all  about  the  mill, 

And  makes  the  miller  blind. 

"  Any  grist  for  the  mill  ?  " 

The  jolly  farmer  packs 
His  wagon  with  a  heavy  load 

Of  very  heavy  sacks. 
Noisily,  oh  noisily, 

The  mill-stones  turn  about ; 
You  cannot  make  the  miller  hear, 

Unless  you  scream  and  shout. 

"  Any  grist  for  the  mill  ?  " 

How  quickly  it  goes  round, 
Splash,  splash,  splash,  splash, 

With  a  whirring  sound. 
Farmers,  bring  your  corn  to-day, 

And  bakers  bring  your  flour  ; 
Dusty  millers,  work  away, 

While  it  is  in  your  power. 

"  Any  grist  for  the  mill  ?" 

Alas  !  it  will  not  go  ; 
The  river,  too,  is  standing  still  ; 

The  ground  is  white  with  snow. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  203 

And  when  the  frosty  weather  comes, 

And  freezes  up  the  streams, 
The  miller  only  hears  the  mill, 

And  grinds  the  corn  in  dreams. 

Living  close  beside  the  mill, 

The  miller's  girls  and  boys 
Always  play  at  make-believe, 

Because  they  have  no  toys. 
"  Any  grist  for  the  mill  ?" 

The  elder  brothers  shout, 
While  all  the  little  petticoats 

Go  whirling  round  about. 

The  miller's  little  boys  and  girls 

Rejoice  to  see  the  snow  ; 
"  Good  father,  play  with  us  to-day  ; 

You  cannot  work,  you  know. 
We  will  be  the  mill-stones, 

And  you  shall  be  the  wheel  ; 
We  '11  pelt  each  other  with  the  snow, 

And  it  shall  be  the  meal." 

Oh,  heartily  the  miller's  wife 

Is  laughing  at  the  door  ; 
She  never  saw  the  mill  worked 

So  merrily  before. 
"  Bravely  done,  my  little  lads, 

Rouse  up  the  lazy  wheel ! 
For  money  comes  but  slowly  in 

Where  snow-flakes  are  the  meal." 

—  Aunt  Effie's  Rhymex. 


204 


CHILD   LIFE. 


CHARLEY,  THE  STORY-TELLER. 

Charles  was  a  very  wayward  youth, 
Who  to  his  parents  ne'er  spoke  truth. 
It  matters  not,  thought  he,  forsooth, 
When  no  one  knows  :  if  I  tell  lies 
They  are  not  written  in  my  eyes  ! 

His  mother  once  some  questions  asked. 
And  artful  Charles  his  cunning  tasked  ; 
When  loud  the  parrot  chuckling  cried, 
"  You  little  rogue  !  may  woe  betide  ! 
For,  Charley,  you  've  been  fibbing  !  " 

Then  from  the  corner  comes  the  cat, 
And  gives  Mamma  a  gentle  pat  : 
"  Good  lady,  he's  deceiving  you." 
She  purrs  aloud  ;  "  Mew,  mew,  mew,  mew  ! 
For  Charley  has  been  fibbing  ! " 


MISCELLA  NEO  VS.  205 

J)own  stairs  now  frightened  Charley  steals, 
As  though  ten  cats  were  at  his  heels  ; 
When  by  his  coat  Tray  seizes  him, 
And  cries  ;  "  Bow,  wow  !  "  in  accents  grim, 
"  Fie,  Charley,  you've  been  fibbing  !" 

Now  both  with  shame  and  anger  red, 
That  e'en  the  cock  and  hens  upbraid, 
He  seeks  the  garden's  safe  retreat  ; 
But  twittering  birds  there  cry  :  "  Tweat,  tweat ! 
Fie,  Charley,  you  've  been  fibbing  !  " 

He  runs  at  last  from  out  the  town, 
And  near  a  village  sits  him  down  ; 
But  even  there  a  fly  soon  comes, 
Who  buzzes  round  his  nose  and  hums  : 

"  Fie,  Charley,  you  've  been  fibbing  ! '" 

He  now  the  blessed  world  runs  round, 
But  rest  for  him  is  no  where  found  ; 
Go  where  he  will,  his  ears  still  greet, 
"  Mew,  mew — bow,  wow  —  buzz,  buzz  —  tweat,  tweat  ! 
Fie,  Charley,  you  've  been  fibbing  !  " 

— -From  the  German. 


THE  LITTLE  NURSE. 

"'Why  do  you  sit  in  the  dull  house,  Annie  ? 
See  what  a  parcel  of  flowers  I  've  found  — 
Columbines,  violets,  snow-drops,  quakers, 

And  cowslips  that  grow  in  the  meadow  ground. 


20(i  CHILD   LIFE. 

"The  boys  are  flying  their  kites,  or  playing 
As  merry  as  crickets  at  bat  and  ball  ; 
And  the  girls  are  playing  at  jars  of  honey, 
But  you,  you  are  moping  away  from  all." 

"  1  must  stay  in  the  house  all  day,"  said  Annie, 
"  Till  mother  comes  home  from  her  work  at  uight 

Your  voices  sound  through  the  open  window, 
And  I  can  see  that  the  sky  is  bright. 

"  I  wish  I  were  out  there  playing  with  you  ; 

I  wish  I  were  one  of  the  honey  jars  ; 
1  wish,  —  but  I  might  as  well  be  wishing 

To  play  a  game  with  the  moon  and  stars. 

"  For  here  in  the  bed  poor  Jane  lies  moaning, 
And  no  kith  nor  kin  in  the  world  has  she  ; 

And  mother  says  that  our  Father  in  Heaven 
Has  given  the  care  of  poor  Jane  to  me. 

"  All  day  my  mother  is  out  at  washing, 
To  earn  our  clothes,  and  our  rent,  and  our  food  ; 

So  I  cannot  play  at  jars  of  honey, 

Or  find  sweet  flowers,  or  hide  in  the  wood." 

"But  your  mother's  at  work  a  mile  from  the  village, 
And  no  one  would  know  it,"  said  Kitty  Ray. 

"  And  as  for  Jane,  she  never  would  miss  you 
If  you  took  an  hour  from  the  tedious  day." 

"  Though  I  am  sometimes  tempted,"  said  Annie, 
"  I  put  the  wrong  thoughts  away  from  my  mind : 

And  I  would  not  deceive  my  Mother,  Kitty, 
For  then  no  pleasure  or  peace  should  I  find- 


MISCELLANEOUS.  207 

"  Many  a  time  I  have  thought  of  running,  — 

And  have  put  on  my  bonnet  and  tied  the  strings,  — 

Of  running  up  the  hill  by  the  river, 

Like  a  bird  that  flies  with  feathery  wings. 

"  But  then  I  thought  that  poor  Jane  might  suffer 

For  a  glass  of  water  while  I  was  gone  ; 
Or,  asking  about  the  time  or  the  weather, 

And  getting  no  answer,  might  feel  forlorn. 

"  And  often  when  I  am  tired  and  longing 

To  steal  away  to  the  beautiful  wood, 
f  think  how  glad  it  will  make  the  Saviour 

To  see  me  sitting  here  patient  and  good. 

"  And  I  think  if  He  were  to  enter  the  chamber 

As  he  entered  the  houses  of  Galilee, 
How  I  should  wish  to  hear  Him  saying 

'  Well  done,  faithful  child,'  to  me." 

There  she  sat  in  the  soft  spring  weather, 

Prisoned  from  treading  the  fresh  green  earth. 

Only  ten  years  have  the  seasons  numbered, 
Since  the  watching  angels  recorded  her  birth. 

Not  as  the  rich  grow,  to  ease  and  pleasure, 

Grew  she, — but  to  labor  and  to  endure. 
And  Christ,  who  once  blessed  the  little  children 

Blesses  them  still  — the  rich  and  the  poor. 


208  CHILD    LIFE. 


BENNY. 


T  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning, 

As  he  sat  upon  my  knee, 
Holding  fast  his  little  stockings, 

Stuffed  as  full  as  full  could  be, 
And  attentive,  listening  to  me, 

With  a  face  demure  and  mild, 
That  old  Santa  Claus,  who  filled  them, 

Did  not  love  a  naughty  child. 

"  But  we  '11  be  good,  won't  we,  Moder  ?  " 

And  from  off  my  lap  he  slid, 
Digging  deep  among  the  goodies 

In  his  crimson  stockings  hid, 
While  I  turned  me  to  my  table, 

Where  a  tempting  goblet  stood, 
With  a  dainty  drink  brimmed  over, 

Sent  me  by  a  neighbor  good. 

But  the  kitten,  there  before  me, 

With  his  white  paw,  nothing  loth, 
Sat  by  way  of  entertainment, 

Slapping  off  the  shining  froth  ; 
And  in  not  the  gentlest  humor 

At  the  loss  of  such  a  treat, 
1  confess,  I  rather  rudely 

Thrust  him  out  into  the  street. 

Then  how  Benny's  blue  eyes  kindled  ! 

Gathering  up  the  precious  store, 
He  had  busily  been  pouring 

In  his  tiny  pinafore. 


MISGELLA  NEO  US.  209 

With  a  generous  look  that  shamed  me, 

Sprang  he  from  the  carpet  bright, 
Showing  by  his  mien  indignant, 

All  a  baby's  sense  of  right. 

"  Come  back,  Harney,"  called  he  loudly, 

As  he  held  his  apron  white, 
"  You  sail  have  my  candy  wabbit  !  " 

But  the  door  was  fastened  tight  ; 
So  he  stood,  abashed  and  silent, 

In  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
With  defeated  look  alternate 

Bent  on  me  and  on  the  door. 

Then,  as  by  some  sudden  impulse, 

Quickly  ran  he  to  the  fire, 
And  while  eagerly  his  bi'ight  eyes 

Watched  the  flames  go  higher  and  higher, 
In  a  brave,  clear  key,  he  shouted, 

Like  some  lordly  little  elf, 
"  Santa  Kaus,  come  down  de  chimney, 

Make  my  moder  'have  herself  !  " 

"  I  will  be  a  good  girl,  Benny/' 

Said  I,  feeling  the  reproof  ; 
And  straightway  recalled  poor  Harney 

Mewing  on  the  gallery  roof. 
Soon  the  anger  was  forgotten, 

Laughter  chased  away  the  frown, 
And  they  gambolled  'neath  the  live-oaks 

Till  the  dusky  night  came  down. 

In  my  dim,  fire-lighted  chamber, 

Harney  pnrred  beneath  my  chair, 
And  my  play-worn  boy  beside  me, 

Knelt  to  say  his  evening  prayer  : 


210  ill  I  LI)    LIFE. 

'  God  bess  fader,  God  boss  moder, 
God  bess  sister  " —  then  a,  pause, 

And  the  sweet  young  lips  devoutly 
Murmured  :   "  God  bess  Santa  Kaus.' 

He  is  sleeping  :   brown  and  silken 

Lie  the  lashes,  long  and  meek, 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek  ; 
And  I  bend  above  him,  weeping 

Thankful  tears,  0  Undenled  ! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory, 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child. 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

"  Well,"  Saturday  to  Sunday  said, 
"  The  people  now  have  gone  to  bed  ; 
All,  after  toiling  through  the  week, 
Right  willingly  their  rest  would  seek  ;  — 
Myself  can  hardly  stand  alone, 
So  very  weary  I  have  grown." 

His  speech  was  echoed  by  the  bell, 
As  on  his  midnight  couch  he  fell  ; 
And  Sunday  now  the  watch  must  keep. 
So,  rising  from  his  pleasant  sleep, 
He  glides,  half-dozing,  through  the  sky, 
To  tell  the  world  that  morn  is  nigh. 

He  rubs  his  eyes,  — and,  noue  too  late, 
Knocks  aloud  at  the  sun's  bright  gate  ; 
She  slumbered  in  her  silent  hall, 
Unprepared  for  his  early  call. 


MISCE  LLA  NEO  US.  2 1 1 

Sunday  exclaims,  "  Thy  hour  is  nigh  !  " 

•'  Well,  well,"  says  she,  "  I  '11  come  by-and-by." 

Gently,  on  tiptoe,  Sunday  creeps,  — 
Cheerfully  from  the  stars  he  peeps,  — 
Mortals  are  all  asleep  below,  — 
None  in  the  village  hears  him  go  ; 
E'en  chanticleer  keeps  very  still,  — 
For  Sunday  whispered  't  was  his  will. 

Now  the  world  is  awake  and  bright, 

After  refreshing  sleep  all  night  ; 

The  Sabbath  morn  in  sunlight  comes, 

Smiling  gladly  on  all  our  homes. 

He  has  a  mild  and  happy  air,  — 

Bright  flowers  are  wreathed  among  his  hair. 

He  comes,  with  soft  and  noiseless  tread, 
To  rouse  the  sleeper  from  his  bed  ; 
And  tenderly  he  pauses  near, 
With  looks  all  full  of  love  and  cheer, 
Well  pleased  to  watch  the  deep  repose 
That  lingered  till  the  morning  rose 

How  gaily  shines  the  early  dew, 
Loading  the  grass  with  its  silver  hue  ! 
And  freshly  comes  the  fragrant  breeze, 
Dancing  among  the  cherry-trees  ; 
The  bees  are  humming  all  so  gay,  — 
They  know  not  it  is  Sabbath-day. 

The  cherry-blossoms  now  appear,  — 
Fair  heralds  of  a  fruitful  year  ; 
There  stands  upright  the  tulip  proud,  — 
Bethlehem-stars  around  her  crowd,  — 
And  hyacinths  of  every  hue,  — 
A.11  sparkling  in  the  morning  dew. 


212  CHILD  LIVE. 

How  still  aud  lovely  all  things  seem  ! 
Peaceful  and  pure  as  an  angel's  dream  ! 
Xo  rattling  carts  are  in  the  streets  ;  — 
Kindly  each  one  his  neighbor  meets  :  — 
"  It  promises  right  fair  to-day  ;  "  ■ — 
"  Yes,  praised  he  God  !  "  —  't  is  all  they  say. 

The  birds  are  singing,  "  Come,  behold 
Our  Sabbath  morn  all  bathed  in  gold, 
Pouring  his  calm,  celestial  light 
Among  the  flowers  so  sweet  and  bright  1  " 
The  pretty  goldfinch  leads  the  row, 
As  if  her  Sunday-robe  to  show. 

Mary,  pluck  those  auriculas,  pray, 
And  don't  shake  the  yellow  dust  away  ; 
Here,  little  Ann,  are  some  for  you,  — 
I  'm  sure  you  want  a  nosegay  too. 
The  first  bell  rings,  —  away  !  away  ! 
We  will  go  to  church  to-day. 

—  From  the  German  of  Hebe/. 


WE    ARE    SEVEN. 

A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 


MISGELLA  NEO  US.  2  L3 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  ;  — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ? " 
"  How  many  !     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?     I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  Ave  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  1 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  )  ou  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be  ?" 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid  ; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 


214  CHILD    LIFE. 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door. 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

' '  The  first  that  died  Avas  sister  Jane  : 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  from  her  pain  ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid  ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow. 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 

Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply. 
"  O  Master  !  Ave  are  seven." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  215 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ; 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  " 
'T  was  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will  ; 

And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven  !  " 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


THE    CHILD-JUDGE. 

"  Where  hast  thou  been  toiling  all  day,  sweetheart, 
That  thy  brow  is  burdened  and  sad  ? 

The  Master's  work  may  make  weary  feet, 
But  it  leaves  the  spirit  glad. 

"  Was  thy  garden  nipped  with  the  midnight  frost, 

Or  scorched  with  the  midday  glare  ? 
Were  thy  vines  laid  low,  or  thy  lilies  crushed, 

That  thy  face  is  so  full  of  care  ?  " 

"  No  pleasant  garden-toils  were  mine  !  — 

I  have  sat  on  the  judgment-seat, 
Where  the  Master  sits  at  eve  and  calls 

The  children  around  his  feet." 

"  How  earnest  thou  on  the  judgment-seat, 

Sweetheart  ?  who  set  thee  there  ? 
T  is  a  lonely  and  lofty  seat  for  thee, 

And  well  might  till  thee  with  care." 

"  I  climbed  on  the  judgment-seat  myself, 

I  have  sat  there  alone  all  day  ; 
For  it  grieved  me  to  see  the  children  around 

Idling  their  life  away. 


216  CHILD   LIFE. 

"  They  wasted  the  Master's  precious  seed, 

They  wasted  the  precious  hours  ; 
They  trained  not  the  vines,  nor  gathered  the  fruits, 

And  they  trampled  the  sweet,  meek  flowers." 

"  And  what  hast  thou  done  on  the  judgment-seat, 
Sweetheart  ?  what  didst  thou  there  ? 

Would  the  idlers  heed  thy  childish  voice  ? 
Did  the  garden  mend  by  thy  care  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  grieved  me  more  !     I  called  and  I  cried, 

But  they  left  me  there  forlorn. 
My  voice  was  weak,  and  they  heeded  not, 

Or  they  laughed  my  words  to  scorn." 

"  Ah,  the  judgment-seat  was  not  for  thee, 

The  servants  were  not  thine  ! 
And  the  eyes  which  adjudge  the  praise  and  the  blame 

See  further  than  thine  or  mine. 

"  The  voice  that  shall  sound  at  eve,  sweetheart, 
Will  not  raise  its  tones  to  be  heard  : 

It  will  hush  the  earth  and  hush  the  hearts, 
And  none  will  resist  its  word." 

"  Should  I  see  the  Master's  treasures  lost, 
The  stores  that  should  feed  his  poor, 

And  not  lift  my  voice,  be  it  weak  as  it  may, 
And  not  be  grieved  sore  ?  " 

"Wait  till  the  evening  falls,  sweetheart,  — 

Wait  till  the  evening  falls  ; 
The  Master  is  near  and  knoweth  all, 

Wait  till  the  Master  calls. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  217 

"  But  how  fared  thy  garden-plot,  sweetheart, 
Whilst  thou  sat'st  on  the  judgment-seat  ? 

Who  watered  thy  roses,  and  trained  thy  vines, 
And  kept  them  from  careless  feet  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  is  the  saddest  of  all  to  me  ! 

That  is  the  saddest  of  all  ! 
My  vines  are  trailing,  my  roses  are  parched, 

My  lilies  droop  and  fall." 

"  Go  back  to  thy  garden-plot,  sweetheart, 

Go  back  till  the  evening  falls  ! 
And  bind  thy  lilies,  and  train  thy  vines, 

Till  for  thee  the  Master  calls. 

"Go  make  thy  garden  fair  as  thou  canst, 

Thou  workest  never  alone  ; 
Perchance  he  whose  plot  is  next  to  thine 

Will  see  it,  and  mend  his  own. 

"And  the  next  may  copy  his,  sweetheart, 

Till  all  grows  fair  and  sweet ; 
And  when  the  Master  comes  at  eve, 

Happy  faces  his  coming  will  greet. 

"  Then  shall  thy  joy  be  full,  sweetheart, 

In  the  garden  so  fair  to  see, 
In  the  Master's  words  of  praise  for  all, 

In  a  look  of  his  own  for  thee." 


AVIS. 

I  may  not  rightly  call  thy  name, — 
Alas  !  thy  forehead  never  knew 

The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 
Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 


218  CHILD    LIFE. 

Daughter  cf  want,  and  wrong,  and  woe. 

I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 
Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing  flow 

By  mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 

"  Avis  !  "  —  With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 
At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 

The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 

Drew  near  to  greet  us,  —  spoke,  and  smiled 

God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win, — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

"  And  who  is  Avis  ?"  —  Hear  the  tale 
The  calm-voiced  matrons  gravely  tell,  — 

The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 

With  the  lost  children  running  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  relate 
The  little  suffering  outcast's  ail  ? 

Not  Lazarns  at  the  rich  man's  gate 

So  turned  the  rose-wreathed  revelers  pale. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  219 

Ah,  veil  the  living  death  from  sight 

That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye  ! 
The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 

The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 

Take  her,  dread  angel  !  Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — 

Xo  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 

The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own  ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall  learn 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 

Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 
Still  battling  for  the  spoil  of  Life 

While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death  ;  the  prize  is  won  ; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast  ! 

Her  task  is  done  ;  no  voice  divine 

Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly  fame. 

Xo  eye  can  see  the  aureole  shine 

That  I'ings  her  brow  with  heavenly  flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 

Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 
When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 

With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 


220  CHILD  LIFE. 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 
The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 

And  let  thine  image  live  alone 
To  hallow  this  unstudied  song  ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holme*. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 


Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  221 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 

Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow  ; 
The  stiff"  rails  were  softened  to  swan's-down, 

And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 

The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 
And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 

Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 

Where  a  little  headstone  stood,  — 
How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 

As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ? " 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All- father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 

When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 

That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 
Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 

The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

"  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 

Alone  can  make  it  fall  !  " 


222  CHILD   LIFE. 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her  ; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again  ! 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 
And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee  ! 
Hereafter  thou  may  'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes  ! 

Press  her  lips,  the  while  they  glow, 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told  ! 
Hereafter  thou  may  'st  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips,  the  while  they  glow 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair,  — 
Although  it  be  not  silver  gray  ! 
Too  early,  Death,  led  on  by  care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 


M1SCELL  A  NEO  US. 


223 


Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer  ; 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn, 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 

—  Tliomaa  Hoo<l . 


224  CHILD    LIFE. 


A     COMFORTER. 

"  Will  she  come  to  me,  little  Effie  ? 

Will  she  come  in  my  arms  to  rest, 
And  nestle  her  head  on  my  shoulder, 

While  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  west  ? 

"  I  and  Effie  will  sit  together, 

All  alone,  in  this  great  arm-chair  :  — 

Is  it  silly  to  mind  it,  darling, 
When  life  is  so  hard  to  bear '( 

"  No  one  comforts  me  like  my  Effie  ; 

Yet  I  think  she  does  not  try,  — 
Only  looks  with  a  wistful  wonder 

Why  grown  people  should  ever  cry  ; 

"  While  her  little  soft  arms  close  tighter 
Round  my  neck  in  their  clinging  hold  ; 

Well,  I  must  not  cry  on  your  hair,  dear, 
For  my  tears  might  tarnish  the  gold. 

"I  am  tired  of  trying  to  read,  dear  ; 

It  is  worse  to  talk  and  seem  gay  : 
There  are  some  kinds  of  sorrow,  Effie, 

It  is  useless  to  thrust  away. 

"  But  my  comforter  knows  a  lesson 
Wiser,  truer  than  all  the  rest  :  — 

That  to  help  and  heal  a  sorrow, 
Love  and  silence  are  alwavs  best. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  225 

"  Well,  who  is  my  comforter  — tell  me  ? 

Eme  smiles,  but  she  will  not  speak  ; 
Or  look  up  through  the  long  curled  lashes 

That  are  shading  her  rosy  cheek. 

"  Is  she  thinking  of  talking  fishes, 

The  blue-bird,  or  magical  tree  ? 
Perhaps  Jam  thinking,  my  darling, 

Of  something  that  never  can  be. 

"  You  long  —  don't  you,  dear,  — for  the  Genii, 
Who  were  slaves  of  lamps  and  of  rings  ? 

And  I  —  I  am  sometimes  afraid,  dear, 
I  want  as  impossible  things. 

"  But  hark  !  there  is  Nurse  calling  Eme  ! 

It  is  bedtime,  so  run  away  ! 
And  I  must  go  back,  or  the  others 

Will  be  wondering  why  I  stay. 

"So  good-night  to  my  darling  Eme  ; 

Keep  happy,  sweetheart,  and  grow  wise  !  - 
Here 's  one  kiss  for  her  golden  tresses, 

And  two  for  her  sleepy  eyes." 

—  Adelaide  Anne  Proctor. 


A   STORY   BY   THE   FIRE. 

Children  love  to  hear  of  children  ! 

I  will  tell  of  a  little  child 
Who  dwelt  alone  with  his  mother 

By  the  edge  of  a  forest  wild. 


226  CHILD  LIFE. 

One  summer's  eve  from  the  forest, 
Late,  late,  down  the  grassy  track, 

The  child  came  back  with  lingering  step, 
And  looks  oft  turning  back. 

"  Oh,  mother  I  "  he  said,  "  in  the  forest 

I  have  met  with  a  little  child  ; 
All  day  he  played  with  me  —  all  day 

He  talked  with  me  and  smiled. 
At  last  he  left  me  alone,  but  then 

He  gave  me  this  rosebud  red  ; 
And  said  he  would  come  to  me  again 

When  all  its  leaves  were  spread. 

"  I  will  put  my  rosebud  in  a  glass, 

I  will  watch  it  night  and  day, 
Dear  little  friend,  wilt  thou  come  again  ? 

Wilt  thou  come  by  my  side  to  play  ? 
I  will  seek  for  strawberries  —  the  best 

Of  all  shall  be  for  thee  ; 
I  will  show  thee  the  eggs  in  the  linnet's  nest 

None  knoweth  of  but  me." 

At  noon,  beside  the  window-sill, 

Awoke  a  bird's  clear  song  ; 
But  all  within  the  house  was  still, 

The  child  was  sleeping  long. 
The  mother  went  to  his  little  room  — 

With  all  its  leaves  outspread 
She  saw  a  rose  in  fullest  bloom  ; 

And,  in  the  little  bed, 
A  child  that  did  not  breathe  or  stir, 

A  little,  happy  child, 
Who  had  met  his  little  friend  again, 

And  in  the  meeting  smiled. 

—  Dora  Greenwell. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  227 


A   NIGHT  WITH   A  WOLF. 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee  ! 

Hark  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roaring  ! 

Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses  : 

"Father  was  lost  in  the  pitch-black  night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is  ! 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 

Where  the  wild  men  watched  and  waited  ; 
Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the  bush, 

And  I  on  my  path  belated. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded  — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining, 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me  : 

Something  rustled,  two  green  eyes  shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 


228  CHILD  LIFE. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened  : 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long  night 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 

His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me  ; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other  ; 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 

No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 
Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding-place 

Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 

Darling,  kiss  me  in  payment  ! 

Hark,  how  the  wind  is  roaring  ; 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring  ! 

—  Bayard  Taylor. 


LOST   ON   THE   PRAIRIE. 

Oh,  my  baby,  my  child,  my  darling  ! 

Lost  and  gone  in  the  prairie  wild  ; 
Mad  gray  wolves  from  the  forest  snarling, 

Snarling  for  thee,  my  little  child  ! 

Lost,  lost !  gone  forever  ! 

Gay  snakes  rattled,  and  charmed,  and  sung 
On  thy  head  the  sun's  fierce  fever, 

Dews  of  death  on  thy  white  lip  hung  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  220 

Dead  and  pale  in  the  moonlight's  glory, 

Cold  and  dead  by  the  black  oak-tree  ; 
Only  a  small  shoe,  stained  and  gory, 

Blood-red,  tattered,  comes  home  to  me. 

Over  the  grass  that  rolls,  like  ocean, 

On  and  on  to  the  blue,  bent  sky, 
Something  comes  with  a  hurried  motion, 

Something  calls  with  a  choking  cry,  — 

"  Here,  here  !  not  dead,  but  living  !  " 

God  !  Thy  goodness  —  what  can  I  pray  ? 

Blessed  more  in  this  second  giving, 
Laid  in  happier  arms  to-day. 

Oh,  my  baby,  my  child,  my  darling ! 

Wolf,  and  snake,  and  the  lonely  tree 
Still  are  rustling,  hissing,  snarling  ; 

Here 's  my  baby  come  back  to  me  ! 

—  Rose  Terry. 


LUCY  CRAY. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Cray  ; 

And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see,  at  break  of  day, 

The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor,  — 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 

Beside  a  human  door. 


230  CHILD  LIFE. 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night,  — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 

And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  father,  will  I  gladly  do  ; 

'T  is  scarcely  afternoon,  — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon  !  " 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band. 

He  plied  his  work  ;  —  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  :  — 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  ; 

She  wandered  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb, 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide  ; 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  s-uide. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  231 

At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor  ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept,  —  and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 

"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet  ;  "  — 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 

The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 

They  tracked  the  footmarks  small  ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge 

And  by  the  low  stone  wall. 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed  — 

The  marks  were  still  the  same  : 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost  ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 

Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 

And  further  there  were  none  ! 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child  ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 

And  never  looks  behind  ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


232  CHILI)  LIFE. 


THE   CAPTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep,  — 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 

And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

'  T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter, 

To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 
And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 

Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 

For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 
While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 

And  the  breakers  talked  with  Heath. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  with  his  prayers, 
"  We  are  lost  !  "  the  captain  shouted, 

As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?  " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 

And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 
And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 

When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

—  James  1 .  Fields. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  233 


THE  GRAY  SWAN. 

"  Oh  !  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship  ?  " 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew,  — ■ 

"  Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu  ? " 

He  said  with  trembling  lip,  — 
"  What  little  lad  ?  What  ship  ?  " 

"  What  little  lad  ?  as  if  there  could  be 
Another  such  a  one  as  he  ! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say  ? 
Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 
The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  kuee  ! 

It  was  just  the  other  day 

The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away  !" 

"  The  other  day  ? "     The  sailor's  eyes 
Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise  :  — 

"  The  other  day  ?  —  the  Swan  ?  » 
His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 
"Ay,  ay,  sir!  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 

The  jacket  he  had  on  !  "  — 

"  And  so  your  lad  is  gone  ?  " 

"  Gone  with  the  Swan  ?" —  "  And  did  she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir  ? " 
"  Why,  to  be  sure  !     I  've  seen  from  the  land, 
Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her, 

A  sight  to  remember,  sir  !  " 


234  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 

T  stood  on  the  Gray  Swan's  deck, 
And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 
Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 

The  kerchief  from  your  neck."  — 
"  Ay,  and  he'll  bring  it  back  !  " 

"  And  did  the  little  lawless  lad, 

That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew  ?" 
"  Lawless  !     The  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had  :  — 

Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew  ! 

What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  " 

"  And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word  nor  made  you  sign, 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 
"  Hold  !  if 'twas  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine  ; 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave  ? 

Tut,  man  !     What  would  you  have  ? '' 

"  Gone,  twenty  years,  —  a  long,  long  cruise, 
'  T  was  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse  ! 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come  back  home,  think  you,  you  can 
Forgive  him  ?  "  —  "Miserable  man  ! 

You  're  mad  as  the  sea,  you  rave  — 
What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 
The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  235 


"  0  God,  my  Father  !  is  it  true  ? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child  ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  !  " 


-Alice  Gary. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 

It  was  a  summer's  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found. 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh, 

"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 

"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory  !  " 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 
For  there 's  many  here  about  ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out  ; 
For  many  thousand  meu,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  that  great  victory  \" 


236  CHILD  LIFE 

"Now,  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 

And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes  ; 

"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  killed  each  other  for  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout  ; 
But  what  they  killed  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory  ! 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  : 

They  burned  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  new-born  baby  died. 

But  things,  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun. 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

After  a  famous  victory. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  237 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"  Why,  't  was  a  very  wicked  thing  I" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory  ! 

"And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"  But 't  was  a  famous  victory  !  " 

—  Robert  Southey. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 

John  Gilpix  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  Town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 


238  CHILD  LIFE. 

"  My  sister  and  my  sister's  child, 
Myself,  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"  I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 
As  all  the  world  doth  know, 

And  my  good  friend,  the  Calender, 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "  That 's  well  said  ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnish'd  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife  ; 

O'erjoy'd  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay'd, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in, 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  239 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad  ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin,  at  his  horse's  side, 

Seiz'd  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again, 

Yoy  saddle-tree  scarce  reach'd  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'T  was  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs, 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  !  " 

"  Good  lack  !  "  quoth  he,  "yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul  !  ) 

Had  two  stonerbottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 


240  CHILD   LIFE. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush'd  and  neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 
Which  gall'd  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 
But  John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 

That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 
In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  241 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought  ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig  ; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung  ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream'd, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all  ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "  Well  done  ! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl." 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around, 
"  He  carries  weight  !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

'T  is  for  a  thousand  pound  !  " 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'T  was  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shatter'd  at  a  blow. 


242  CHILD  LIFE. 


Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced  ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !  —  Here 's  the  house"- 

They  all  aloud  did  cry  ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  ;  " 

Said  Gilpin,  "  So  am  I  ! " 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclin'd  to  tarry  there  ; 
Fur  why  ?  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  243 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong  ; 
So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till,  at  his  friend  the  Calender's, 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  Calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  a  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

"  What  news  !  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall  — 
Say,  why  bare-headed  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?  " 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  Calender, 

In  merry  guise,  he  spoke  : 

"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come  ; 

And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  Calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Return'd  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in  ; 


244  CHILD  LIFE. 


Whence  straight  he  came,  with  hat  and  wig, 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind  ; 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit ; 
"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"But  let  me  scrape  the  dust  away, 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'T  was  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast  ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear  ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  gallop'd  off"  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  245 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig  ; 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ?  —  they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mrs.  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pull'd  out  half-a-crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ; 
Whom  iu  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  rumbling  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  rais'd  a  hue  and  cry  :  — 


246  CHILD  LIFE. 


"  Stop  thief  !  —  stop  thief !  —  a  highwayman  !  " 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way, 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  : 
The  toll-men  thinking,  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopp'd  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see.  —  William  Cowper. 


THE   SPIDER   AND   THE   FLY. 

"  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ?  " 

Said  a  spider  to  a  fly  ; 
"'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor 

That  ever  you  did  spy. 
The  way  into  my  parlor 

Is  up  a  winding  stair, 
And  I  have  many  pretty  things 

To  show  when  you  are  there." 
"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  said  the  little  fly, 

"  To  ask  me  is  in  vain  ; 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair. 

Can  ne'er  come  down  again." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


247 


248  CHILD  LIFE. 


"  I  'm  sure  you  must  be  weary 

With  soaring  up  so  high  ; 
Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed  ? " 

Said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 
"  There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around, 

The  sheets  are  fine  and  thin  ; 
And  if  you  like  to  rest  awhile, 

I  '11  snugly  tuck  you  in." 
"  Oh  no,  no  !  »  said  the  little  fly, 

"  For  I  've  often  heard  it  said, 
They  never,  never  wake  again, 

Who  sleep  upon  your  bed." 

Said  the  cunning  spider  to  the  fly, 

"  Dear  friend,  what  shall  I  do, 
To  prove  the  warm  affection, 

I  've  always  felt  for  you  ? 
I  have,  within  my  pantry, 

Good  store  of  all  that 's  nice  ; 
I  'm  sure  you  're  very  welcome  — 

Will  you  please  to  take  a  slice  ?  " 
"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  said  the  little  fly, 

'•  Kind  sir,  that  cannot  be  ; 
1  've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry, 

And  I  do  not  wish  to  see." 


"  Sweet  creature,"  said  the  spider, 

"  You  're  witty  and  you  're  wise  ; 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings, 

How  brilliant  are  your  eyes. 
I  have  a  little  looking-glass 

Upon  my  parlor  shelf  ; 
If  you  '11  step  in  one  moment,  dear. 

You  shall  behold  yourself." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  249 

"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said, 

"  For  what  you're  pleased  to  say, 
And  bidding  you  good-morning,  now, 

I  '11  call  another  day." 


The  spider  turned  him  round  about, 

And  went  into  his  den, 
For  well  he  knew  the  silly  fly 

Would  soon  be  back  again  ; 
So  he  wove  a  subtle  thread 

In  a  little  corner  sly, 
And  set  his  table  ready 

To  dine  upon  the  fly. 
He  went  out  to  his  door  again, 

And  merrily  did  sing, 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  fly, 

With  the  pearl  and  silver  wing  ; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple, 

There 's  a  crest  upon  your  head  ; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright, 

But  mine  are  dull  as  lead." 

Alas,  alas  !  how  very  soon 

This  silly  little  fly, 
Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words, 

Came  slowly  flitting  by  : 
With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft, 

Then  near  and  nearer  drew  — 
Thought  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes, 

And  green  and  purple  hue  ; 
Thought  only  of  her  crested  head,  — 

Poor  foolish  thing  !     At  last 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  spider, 

And  fiercely  held  her  fast. 


250  CHILD  LIFE. 


He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair, 

Into  his  dismal  den 
Within  his  little  parlor  —  but 

She  ne'er  came  out  again  ! 
And  now,  dear  little  children 

Who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words, 

I  pray  you,  ne'er  give  heed  : 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor 

Close  heart  and  ear  and  eye, 
And  learn  a  lesson  from  this  tale 

Of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

—  Mary  Howiit. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   AND   THE   SQUIRREL. 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "  Little  prig  ; " 

Bun  replied, 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big, 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together 

To  make  up  a  year, 

And  a  sphere  : 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I  'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry  ; 

I  '11  not  deny  you  make 


MISCELLANEOUS.  251 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track. 
Talents  differ  ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put  ; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

—  R.  W.  Emerson. 


LITTLE   BROWN   HANDS. 

They  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture, 

Up  through  the  long  shady  lane, 
Where  the  quail  whistles  loud  in  the  wheat-fields, 

That  are  yellow  with  ripening  grain. 
They  find,  in  the  thick  waving  grasses, 

Where  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows. 
They  gather  the  earliest  snowdrops, 

And  the  first  crimson  buds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  new  hay  in  the  meadow  ; 

They  gather  the  elder-bloom  white  ; 
They  find  where  the  dusky  grapes  purple 

In  the  soft-tinted  October  light. 
They  know  where  the  apples  hang  ripest, 

And  are  sweeter  than  Italy's  wines  ; 
They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest 

On  the  long,  thorny  blackberry-vines. 

They  gather  the  delicate  sea-weeds, 

And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand  ; 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  sea-shells,  — 

Fairy  barks  that  have  drifted  to  land. 
They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree-tops 

Where  the  oriole's  hammock-nest  swings  ; 
And  at  night-time  are  folded  in  slumber 

By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings. 


252 


CHILD  LIFE. 


Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest ; 

The  humble  and  poor  become  great ; 
And  so  from  these  brown-handed  children 

Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  statesman,  — 

The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land,  — 
The  sword,  and  the  chisel,  and  palette, 

Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 

—  M.H.  Krout. 


HYMNS. 


HYMISTS. 


MOTHER'S    HYMN. 

There  sitteth  a  dove  so  white  and  fair, 

All  on  the  lily  spray, 
And  she  listeneth  how  to  Jesus  Christ 
•   The  little  children  pray. 

Lightly  she  spreads  her  friendly  wings, 

And  to  heaven's  gate  hath  sped, 
And  unto  the  Father  in  heaven  she  bears 

The  prayers  which  the  children  have  said. 

And  back  she  comes  from  heaven's  gate, 

And  she  brings,  that  dove  so  mild, 
From  the  Father  in  heaven,  who  hears  her  speak, 

A  blessing  on  every  child. 

Then,  children,  lift  up  a  pious  prayer  ! 

It  hears  whatever  you  say  ; 
That  heavenly  dove  so  white  and  fair, 

All  on  the  lily  spray.  —  From  the  Swedish. 


THE   NEAREST  FRIEND. 

Dear  Jesus  !  ever  at  my  side, 

How  loving  must  Thou  be, 
To  leave  Thy  home  in  heaven,  to  guard 

A  little  child  like  me. 


256  CHILD  LIFE. 

Thy  beautiful  and  shining  face 

I  see  not,  though  so  near  ; 
The  sweetness  of  Thy  soft,  low  voice 

I  am  too  deaf  to  hear. 

I  cannot  feel  Thee  touch  my  hand, 

With  pressure  light  and  mild, 
To  check  me,  as  my  mother  did 

When  I  was  but  a  child. 

But  I  have  felt  Thee  in  my  thoughts, 

Fighting  with  sin  for  me  ; 
And  when  my  heart  loves  God,  I  know 

The  sweetness  is  from  Thee. 

Yes  !  when  I  pray,  Thou  prayest  too, 

Thy  prayer  is  all  for  me  ; 
But  when  I  sleep,  Thou  sleepest  not, 

But  watchest  patiently. 

—  F.  W.  Faber. 


A  MOTHER'S  MORNING  PRAYER. 

Up  to  me  sweet  childhood  looketh, 
Heart,  and  mind,  and  soul  awake  ; 

Teach  me  of  Thy  ways,  0  Father  ! 
For  sweet  childhood's  sake. 

In  their  young  hearts,  soft  and  tender, 
Guide  my  hand  good  seed  to  sow, 

That  its  blossoming  may  praise  Thee, 
Wheresoe'er  they  go. 


HYMNS.  257 


Give  to  me  a  cheerful  spirit, 
That  my  little  flock  may  see 

It  is  good  and  pleasant  service 
To  be  taught  of  Thee. 

Father,  order  all  my  footsteps  ; 

So  direct  my  daily  way, 
That,  in  following  me,  the  children 

May  not  go  astray. 

Let  Thy  holy  counsel  lead  me  ; 

Let  Thy  light  before  me  shine  ; 
That  they  may  not  stumble  over, 

Word  or  deed  of  mine. 

Draw  us  hand  in  hand  to  Jesus, 
'     For  His  word's  sake,  unforgot,  — 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  to  me, 
And  forbid  them  not." 


HYMN    OF    A   CHILD. 

Loving  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child  ! 

Make  me  gentle  as  Thou  art, 
Come  and  live  within  my  heart. 

Take  my  childish  hand  in  thine, 
Guide  these  little  feet  of  mine. 

So  shall  all  my  happy  days 

Sing  their  pleasant  song  of  praise  ; 

And  the  world  shall  always  see 
Christ,  the  holy  Child,  in  me  ! 

—  Abridged  from  C.  Wesley. 


258  CHILD  LIFE. 


AN  EVENING  PKAYER. 


Before  I  close  my  eyes  in  sleep, 
Lord,  hear  my  evening  prayer, 

And  deign  a  helpless  child  to  keep 
With  Thy  protecting  care. 

Though  young  in  years,  I  have  been  taught 

Thy  name  to  love  and  fear  ; 
Of  Thee  to  think  with  solemn  thought, 

Thy  goodness  to  revere. 

That  goodness  gives  each  simple  flower 

Its  scent  and  beauty  too, 
And  feeds  it  in  night's  darkest  hour 

With  heaven's  refreshing  dew. 

Nor  will  Thy  mercy  less  delight 

The  infant's  God  to  be, 
Who,  through  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

Eor  safety  trusts  to  Thee. 

The  little  birds  that  sing  all  day 

In  many  a  leafy  wood, 
By  Thee  are  clothed  with  plumage  gay, 

By  Thee  supplied  with  food. 

And  when  at  night  they  cease  to  sing, 

By  Thee  protected  still, 
Their  young  ones  sleep  beneath  their  wing 

Secure  from  every  ill. 

Thus  may'st  Thou  guard  with  gracious  arm 

The  bed  whereon  I  he, 
And  keep  a  child  from  every  harm 

By  Thy  all-watchful  eye. 


HYMNS. 


259 


2G0 


CHILD  LIFE. 

For  night  and  day  to  Thee  are  one  ■ 

The  helpless  are  Thy  care  ; 
And  for  the  sake  of  Thy  dear  Son, 

Thou  hear'st  rny  childish  prayer. 

—  Bernard  Barton 


rm 


ALL  THINGS  BEAUTIFUL. 

All  things  bright  and  beautiful, 
All  creatures  great  and  small, 

All  things  wise  and  wonderful, 
The  Lord  God  made  them  all. 


HYMNS.  261 

Each  little  flower  that  opens, 

Each  little  bird  that  sings, 
He  made  their  glowing  colors, 

He  made  their  tiny  wings. 

The  purple-headed  mountain, 

The  river,  running  by, 
The  morning,  and  the  sunset 

That  lighteth  up  the  sky. 

The  tall  trees  in  the  greenwood, 

The  pleasant  summer  sun, 
The  ripe  fruits  in  the  garden, 

He  made  them  every  one. 

He  gave  us  eyes  to  see  them, 

And  lips  that  we  might  tell, 
How  great  is  God  Almighty, 

Who  hath  made  all  things  well. 

—  John  Keble. 


FALLING   TO    SLEEP. 

Evening  is  falling  to  sleep  in  the  west, 
Lulling  the  golden-brown  meadows  to  rest  ; 
Twinkle  like  diamonds  the  stars  in  the  skies, 
Greeting  the  two  little  slumbering  eyes 

Sweetly  sleep  ;  Jesus  doth  keep  ; 

And  Jesus  will  give  His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

Now  all  the  flowers  have  gone  to  repose, 
Closed  are  the  sweet  cups  of  lily  and  rose  ; 
lilossoms  rocked  lightly  on  evening's  mild  breeze, 
Drowsily,  dreamily  swinging  the  trees. 

Sweetly  sleep  ;  Jesus  doth  keep  ; 

And  Jesus  will  give  His  beloved  ones  sleep. 


262  CHILD  LIFE. 

Sleep  till  the  flowers  shall  open  once  more  ; 
Sleep  till  the  lark  in  the  morning  shall  soar  ; 
Sleep  till  the  morning  sun  lighting  the  skies, 
Bids  thee  from  sweet  repose  joyfully  rise. 

Sweetly  sleep  ;  Jesus  doth  keep  ; 

And  Jesus  will  give  His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

—  From  the  German 


THE    GOD    OF   MY   CHILDHOOD. 

0  God  !  who  wert  my  childhood's  love, 
My  boyhood's  pure  delight, 

A  presence  felt  the  livelong  day, 
A  welcome  fear  at  night. 

They  bade  me  call  Thee,  Father,  Lord  ! 

Sweet  was  the  freedom  deemed. 
And  yet  more  like  a  mother's  ways 

Thy  quiet  mercies  seemed. 

1  could  not  sleep  unless  Thy  hand 
Were  underneath  my  head, 

That  I  might  kiss  it  if  I  lay 
Wakeful  upon  my  bed. 

And  quite  alone  I  never  felt  ;  — 
I  knew  that  Thou  wert  near,  — 

A  silence  tingling  in  the  room  ; 
A  strangely  pleasant  fear. 

I  know  not  what  I  thought  of  Thee  ; 

What  picture  I  had  made 
Of  that  Eternal  Majesty 

To  whom  my  childhood  prayed. 


HYMNS.  263 

I  know  I  used  to  lie  awake 

And  tremble  at  the  shape 
Of  my  own  thoughts,  yet  did  not  wish 

Thy  terrors  to  escape. 

With  age  Thou  grewest  more  divine, 

More  glorious  than  before  ; 
I  feared  Thee  with  a  deeper  fear 

Because  I  loved  Thee  more. 

Thou  broadenest  out  with  every  year 

Each  breath  of  life  to  meet. 
I  scarce  can  think  thou  art  the  same, 

Thou  art  so  much  more  sweet. 

Father  !  what  hast  thou  grown  to  now  ? 

A  joy  all  joys  above. 
Something  more  sacred  than  a  fear, 

More  tender  than  a  love. 

With  gentle  swiftness  lead  me  on, 

Dear  God  !  to  see  thy  face. 
And  meanwhile  in  my  narrow  heart 

0  make  Thyself  more  space  ! 

—  F.  W.  Father. 


■ 


Ha 


